
6to-TBA 3 54- 

Book >1 4 l . 



COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT 



A HISTORY 



OF 



GREEK LITERATURE 



BY 

THOMAS SERGEANT PERRY 

AUTHOR OF "ENGLISH LITERATURE IN THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY," "FROM 
OPITZ TO LESSING," "THE EVOLUTION OF THE SNOB." 







NEW YORK 

HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY 

1890 



^ 

^ s* 



v' 



Copyright, 1890, 

BY 

HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY. 



12 



Robert Drummond, 

Printer, 

New York. 



S* p^ wan 

I DEDICATE THIS BOOK 



PREFACE 



This book is an attempt to recount the history of Greek litera- 
ture, not so much to classical students as to those who have no 
direct knowledge of the subject. Albert Wolff's " Pantheon des 
Classischen Alterthums" (Berlin: Hempel, 1881), a volume of the 
excellent series of the " Classiker aller Zeiten und Nationen," has 
served as a model. 

Among many things which doubtless demand apology is the 
reference (p. 442) to Windisch's interesting hypothesis on the influ- 
ence of the New Comedy upon the Sanskrit drama, which is spoken 
of as if it were a fact. Prof. L. von Schroeder, in his interesting 
" Indiens Literatur und Cultur in historischer Entwicklung" (Leip- 
zig, 1887), nas shown that the hypothesis is untenable. 

It has been thought undesirable to mention all the authorities 
used; the "general reader" does not care for, and the scholar does 
not need, the frequent footnote in a book of this sort. 

The author tenders his warmest thanks to Mr. A. P. C. Griffin, 
of the Boston Public Library, who, with the utmost kindness, saw 
about four-fifths of the book through the press, during the author's 
absence from the country; to Mr. Louis Dyer for many valuable 
suggestions and much good counsel, as well as for permission to use 
his manuscript translations of Euripides; to Mr. J. G. Croswell for 
kind aid ; and to the many writers who allowed him to make use of 
their published translations in this book. He, moreover, desires to 
express his indebtedness to Mr. E. E. Treffry, of New York, who 
read the proofs, not only with untiring patience, but also with 
friendly zeal. 

312, Marlborough Street, Boston, 
Feb. 26, 1890. 



Vll 



CONTENTS 



INTRODUCTORY. 

PAGE 

The Independence of the Greek Literature.— Its Influence. — Its Artistic Quali- 
ties. — The People; their Earliest History. — The Country ; its Geography. — The 
Possible Influence of Climate, etc.— The Language __-_-! 



BOOK I.— THE EPICS. 



CHAPTER I. 

THE HOMERIC QUESTION. 

I. — The Beginnings of Literature. — The Influence of Religious Feeling. — The 
Traces of Early Song. II. — The Hexameter, and its Possible Growth. III. — 
The Homeric Poems. — The References to an Earlier Period. — The Ionic Origin of 
the Poems. — The Existence of Homer. IV. — The Long Discussion of this Sub- 
ject : Bentley, Wolf, etc. Possible Date of the Compositions of these Poems. — 
Archaeological Illustrations -- - - - - - - - -12 

CHAPTER II. 

THE ILIAD. 

I. — The Subject of the Poem. — The Admiration felt for it. — Its Fate at Dif- 
ferent Periods of Ancient and Modern History. — Adaptations and Translations : 
Chapman, Pope, etc. II. — An Analysis of the Poem. III.— Some of the Quali- 
ties of the Heroes : their Unconventional Timidity ; their Relations to the Gods. 
IV. — The Greek Epic Treatment compared with that of other Races. V. — The 
Illustrative Extracts ----------- 30 

CHAPTER III. 

THE ODYSSEY. 

I. — The Difference between the Iliad and the Odyssey, and the Resultant 
Discussion. — An Analysis of the Latter Poem. II.— Some of the Qualities of this 
Poem. — Its Coherence and Simplicity. — The Naivete of the Heroes — The Explan- 
ation of the Poem as a Solar Myth. III. — Illustrative Extracts - - - 82 



Vlll CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER IV. 

THE EPICS IN GENERAL, AND THE HOMERIC HYMNS. page 

I. — Extravagance of some of the Praise given to Homer by Over-enthusi- 
astic Admirers. — Some of the Points of Resemblance and Difference between the 
Iliad and Odyssey, as in the Relation of Gods to Men, etc. ; the Different Kinds 
of Similes in the two Poems ; of Epithets.— The Moral Law as it is Implied and 
Stated. II. — The Other Compositions ascribed to Homer; Hymns, Parodies and 
Minor Poems. — The Light that the Hymns throw on Early Religious Thought. — 
The Myths not invented as Stories, but Attempted Explanations of the Universe. — 
The Mock-Homeric Poems. III. — Illustrative Extracts. IV. — The Later Epics : 
their Subjects ; their Relation to the Homeric Poems ; and their Merit - - - 118 

CHAPTER V. 

HESIOD. 

I. — All our Positive Information about this Poet most Vague. — His Boeotian 
Origin ; All that This Implies in Comparison with the Ionic Civilization. — The 
Doric Severity and Conservatism. — The Devotion to Practical Ends. II. — The 
Story of Hesiod's Life. — His " Works and Days " Described. — Its Thrifty Advice 
Combining Folk-lore and Farming. — The " Theogony," a Manual of Old Mythol- 
ogy. — His Other Work ; its General Aridity. — Illustrative Extracts - - - 136 



BOOK II.— THE LYRIC POETRY. 



INTRODUCTORY. 

The Hexameter as an Expression Adapted to a Feudal Period, when Com- 
parative Uniformity Prevailed. — Changing Circumstances, with Added Complexity 
of Life, Saw New Forms of Utterance Introduced into Literature. — These, how- 
ever, had already Enjoyed a Long, if Unrecognized, Life among the People : 
Such were Liturgical, as well as Popular, in their Nature, and Run Back to 
Primeval Savageness - - - - - - - - - - -150 

CHAPTER I. 

THE EARLIER LYRIC POETS. 

I. — The Influence of Religion on the Early Growth of the Lyric Poetry. — 
The Traditional Origins : Orpheus and Musaeus. — The Importance of Music. — Its 
Condition in Early Times. — Its Use as an Aid to Poetry. — The Traditional Olym- 
pus, the Father of Music. II. — Callinus and the Elegy. — Its Use by Archilochus, 
and the Growth of Individuality. — The Value of the New Forms as Expressions 
of the Political Changes then Appearing. III. — Simonides and His denuncia- 
tion of Women. — His Melancholy. — The Meagreness of the Lyrical Fragments 
Impedes our Knowledge. — The Extent of our Loss Conjectured - - - 154 



CONTENTS. IX 

CHAPTER II. 

THE LYRIC POETS— Continued. PAGE 

I. — Tyrtseus, and his Patriotic Songs in Behalf of Sparta. — In Contrast, the 
Amorous Wail of Mimnermus. — Solon in Athens, as a Lawgiver, and as a Writer 
of Elegies mainly of Political Import. II. — The Melic Poetry, and its Connection 
with Music and Dance. — The Growth of Music ; the Different Divisions. — Alcman, 
Alcaeus, Sappho, Erinna, Stesichorus, Ibycus. — Anacreon, and his Vast Popular- 
ity. III. — The Elegiac Poetry. — Phocylides and his Inculcation of Reasonable- 
ness. — Xenophanes and his Philosophical Exposition. — Theognis and his Politi- 
cal Teachings.— Simonides, his Longer Poems and his Epigrams. — Bacchylides, 
Lasus, Myrtis, and the Predecessors of Pindar. — Translations of some Lyrical 
Poems ----- - - 165 

CHAPTER III. 

PINDAR. 

The General Condition of the Lyric Poetry. I. — Its Flowering in Pindar. — 
His Life. — His Relations with the Sicilian Tyrants. — A Comparison between him 
and Milton. — The Abundance of his Work, and its Various Divisions. II. — The 
Epinicion, or Song in Praise of a Victor at the Public Games. — The Games, and 
their Significance to the Greeks. — The Adulation which Pindar Gave to the Vic- 
tors ; the Serious Nature of his Work ; its Relation to Religious Thought ; its 
Ethical Importance, all being Qualities that were Outgrowing the Bonds of Mere 
Lyric Verse. III. — Illustrative Extracts - - ----- 196 



BOOK III.— THE GREEK TRAGEDY. 



CHAPTER I. 

ITS GROWTH AND HISTORY. 

I. — The Prominence of Athens after the Wars with Persia. — The Qualities of 
the Athenians ; their Intellectual Vivacity ; the Aristocratic Conditions of their 
Society. — The Little Influence of Women and Books. — Their Political Training. — 
Their Literary Enthusiasm. II. — The Drama a Growth, not a Special Creation. — 
The Early Condition of Dramatic Performances. — The Celebration of Festivals ; 
the Dithyramb ; the Rudimentary Dialogues ; the Worship of Dionysus. — The 
Drama before ^schylus, and the Resemblance between its Growth and that of 
Modern Times. III. — The Mechanical Conditions. — The Theatres ; the Actors 
and their Equipment. — The Stage. — The Masks. — The Absence of Minute Detail, 
and Unlikeness to Modern Drama. — The Chorus ; its Composition and its Share 
in the Performance at Different Times. IV. — The Author's Relation to his 
Play.— The Tetralogy and its Obscurities. — Further Obscurities Besetting the Sub- 
ject, such as the Symmetry of the Plays. — The Plays that Survive. — The General 
Development of the Drama, and its Dependence on the Life of the Time - - - 217 



X CONTENTS, 

CHAPTER II. 

MSCHYLUS. page 

I. — The Life of yEschylus ; his Part in the Persian Wars ; his Career as an 
Author ; his Death. II. — The Difficulties in the Way of our Comprehending the 
Greek Drama. — Its Spectacular Effect with the Choral Dances. — The Simplicity 
of the Plot compared with Shakspere's Art. — The Unities in the Greek Plays. — 
The Absence of Love as a Dramatic Inspiration. — The Flowering of the Drama 
in Athens, Paris, and London at a Moment of Victory. III. — The Earliest Play, 
The Persians. — Its Presentation of Historical Events. — An Analysis of the Play. — 
The First Appearance of the Drama in Western Literature. — The Prominence of 
the Chorus, and Diminutive Value of the Actors, and the Archaic Quality of the 
Infant Drama; Tableaux rather than Actions. — Solemnity of /Eschylus. IV. — 
The Seven Against Thebes Analyzed. — The Mythical Plot. — The Slow Growth of 
Dramatic Action. V. — The Suppliants. — The Predominance of the Lyrical Ele- 
ment, the Crudity of the Dialogue. VI. — The Prometheus Bound. — The Possible 
Significance of the Myth. — The Dramatic Treatment. — Its Apparent Irreverence — 
Our Meagre Comprehension of it. VII. — The Oresteian Trilogy, the Agamem- 
non, the Libation Poems, and the Furies, Analyzed. — The Significance of the 
Dramatic Treatment of Alleged Legendary History. — The Ethical Principle. — The 
Simplicity of ^Eschylus. — The Changes wrought by Time in the Drama - - 239 

CHAPTER III. 

SOPHOCLES. 

I. — The Life of Sophocles; his Relation to the Persian Wars. — The Position 
he Held. — His Relation to the Time of Pericles ; the Main Qualities of that Bril- 
liant Period. — His Work Compared with that of ^Eschylus. II. — The Electra. 
Compared with the Treatment of the Oresteian Myth by ^Eschylus. — The Play 
Described. — Importance of Oratory among the Greeks Illustrated by the Plays. — 
Fullness of the Art of Sophocles. III. — The Antigone; its Adaptability to 
Modern Tastes. — The Modification in the Treatment of the Chorus. IV. — The 
King CEdipus. — Its Vividness and Impressiveness. V. — The CEdipus at Colonus. — 
Its Praise of Athens. VI. — The Ajax. — Its Treatment of a Bit of Homeric 
Story. — The Interference of a Deity. — The Growth of Individuality. VII. — The 
Philoctetes ; Again Homeric Characters. — The Individual Traits Strongly Brought 
out. VIII. — The Maidens of Trachis. — General View of the Art of Sophocles, 
with its Rounded Perfection - - - - - - - - - - 301 

CHAPTER IV. 

EURIPIDES. 

I. — The Changes in Greek Literature and in the Body Politic. — An Illustra- 
tive Quotation from Mr. J. A. Symonds. II. — The Life of Euripides, and an 
Attempt to Explain his Relation to his Predecessors. — His Movement toward 
Individuality not a Personal Trait, but Part of a General Change. The Religious 
Decadence; Political Enfeeblement. III. — The Work of Euripides; its Abun- 
dance. — The Hecuba. — The Prologue as Employed by this Writer. IV. — The 
Orestes and its Treatment. — The New Treatment of the Heroes as Human 
Beings. — The Phenician Virgins. — The Medea; its Intensity. — Extracts. V. — 
The Crowned Hippolytus. — Realism in the Treatment of the Characters. — The ■ 
Further Change in the Importance of the Chorus 352 



CONTENTS. XI 

CHAPTER V. 

EURIPIDES II. page 

I. — The Alcestis of Euripides. — His Humanity Offensive to His Contempo- 
raries. — The Andromache ; the Conversational Duels. II. — The Suppliants ; the 
Heracleidas ; their Political Allusions. — The Helen, with its Romantic Interest in 
Place of the Earlier Solemnity, and Its Enforcement of Unheroic Misfortune. — 
Its Lack of the Modern Dramatic Spirit. III. — The Troades, a Curious Treat- 
ment of the Old Myths. — The Mad Heracles ; its Representation of the Gods in 
Accordance with the New Spirit. — The Electra ; its Importance as a Bit of 
Literary Controversy. — Its Inferiority to the Plays of ./Eschylus and Sophocles on 
the Same Subject. — The Ion ; a Drama, not a Tragedy, and a Marked Specimen 
of the Change in Thought. — A Comparison between its Complexity and the 
Earlier Simplicity. — Condemnation of the Old Mythology. IV. — The Two Iphi- 
geneias. — The dens ex machina. V. — The Bacchas, and its Importance in the 
Study of Greek Religious Thought.— The Feeling of Euripides for Natural 
Scenery; His Modern Spirit. — The Satyric Play, the Cyclops. — The Rhesus. VI. — 
The Successors of Euripides. — The Extended Influence of the Greek Drama, and 
especially of Euripides as the Most Modern of the Ancients - 398 

CHAPTER VI. 

THE COMEDY. 

I. — Obscurity of its Early History ; its Alleged Origins, in the Dionysiac 
Festivals, and in Various Places, as in Sicily, among the Megarians, etc. — The 
Earlier Writers of Comedy. II. — Aristophanes. — Comedy as he Found it ; its 
Technical Laws ; the Chorus, etc. — The Acharnians. — The Seriousness of all 
the Comedies; their Conservatism. — The Horse-play. III. — The Knights; its 
Attack on Cleon, and General Political Fervor. IV. — The Clouds, with its 
Derision of Socrates and of Modern Tendencies. V. — The Wasps, and its 
Denunciation of Civic Decay. VI. — The Peace, and its Political Implications. — 
The Poetical Side of Aristophanes. VII.— The Birds. VIII.— The Lysistrata, 
and the Thesmophoriazusae. — The Attack on Euripides directly, and indirectly 
on Current Affairs. — Hopelessness of the Position held by Aristophanes. IX. — 
The Frogs ; Euripides again Assaulted, and /Eschylus Exalted. X. — The Eccle- 
siazusse, and the Plutus. — The Altered Conditions. — The Unliterary Quality of 
Attic Comedy in its Early Days. — Importance of Aristophanes as a Mouth-piece 
of the Athenian People. XI. — The Later Development of Comedy. — Philemon 
and Menander; the Contrast between their Work and that of Aristophanes. — 
Its Relation to the Later Times _.-. 444 



BOOK IV.— THE HISTORIANS. 



CHAPTER I. 

HERODOTUS. 
I. — The Origin of Prose. — The Predecessors of Herodotus. II. — Herodotus, 
his Life, his Travels. — His Methods, his Object. — The Criticisms of his Work. — 
His Stories.— His Authorities. III.— Extracts - 508 



X11 CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER II. 

THUC YD IDE S. page 

I. — The Vast Difference between Herodotus and Thucydides. — The Life of 
Thucydides. — His Conception of the Historian's Duty.— His Modernness. — His 
Language. II. — His Use of Speeches. — His Self-control. III. — The Fame of his 
History.— Its Presentation of Political Principles. IV.— The Sicilian Expedition, 533 

CHAPTER III. 

XENOPHON. 

I. — Xenophon's Relation to Thucydides. — His Life. — The Anabasis. II. — 
The Hellenica. — Qualities of Xenophon's Style. — The Memorabilia. III. — The 
Cyropaedia, an Historical Novel. IV. — Xenophon's Minor Writings. — The Possi- 
ble Reasons for his Great Fame. — His General, but Safe, Mediocrity. V. — 
Extracts - - - - - - - - - - - -.- -571 



BOOK V.— THE ORATORS. 



CHAPTER I. 

THE EARLY ORATORS AND I SOCRATES. 

I. — The Difference between Ancient and Modern Notions of the Function of 
Eloquence. — Our Theories mainly Derived from Roman Declamation. — The 
Greek Methods Different. II. — Development of Oratory among the Greeks. — 
The Influence of the Sophists ; the Varying Opinions concerning these Teachers. 
— Their Instruction in Philosophy, Rhetoric, and Physics. III. — The Growth of 
Dialectic in Sicily. — The Early Teachers, and their Modification of the Greek 
Prose Style. Its Imitation of Poetical Models, Compared with Euphuism. IV. — 
Antiphon, Andokides, Lysias ; Isocrates and his Artificial Style. His Political 
Yearnings. — Isasos. — The Diversity of Athenian Politics Expressed in the Oratory 
of Isocrates and in his Cunning Art. — Its Literary Qualities - 598 

CHAPTER II. 

DEMOSTHENE S. 

I. — The Life of Demosthenes. — His Early Speeches. II. — His Opposition 
to Philip of Macedon. — The Divided Condition of the Greeks. III. — The Position 
of Demosthenes. — His Various Efforts to Arouse his Fellow-Countrymen. — The 
Olynthiac Struggle between Athens and Philip ; the King's Success. IV. — Last 
Years of Demosthenes. V. — Qualities of his Eloquence. — Hopelessness of his 
Position. — Contemporary Orators, Phocion, Hypereides, etc. — The Later History 
of Oratory. VI. — Extracts ---------- 622 



CONTENTS. Xlll 



BOOK VI.— THE PHILOSOPHERS. 



CHAPTER I. 

THE EARLY PHILOSOPHERS AND SOCRATES. page 

I. — The Originality of Greek Philosophical Thought. — The Earliest Philoso- 
phers and their Views, Physical and Metaphysical. — The Ionians ; Pythagoras, 
and the Vague Report of His Life and Teachings. — Xenophanes, Heraclitus, 
Empedocles, etc. II. — The Atomists. — Our Dependence on Aristotle for Infor- 
mation, so that we Get but Glimpses of the Past, yet these Glimpses Attract Stu- 
dents. — Anaxagoras in his Relation to the Athenian Public. — The Sophists in 
Athens.— Their Evil Repute.— The Growth of Individualism in Philosophy Going 
on All Fours with its Spread in Literature. Ill — Protagoras, his Ethical Teach- 
ings. — Conservative Opposition to New Thought. — The Cosmopolitanism of Phil- 
osophy Distasteful to Patriotic Greeks. — Philosophy an Aristocratic Attribute, like 
Modern Letters, unlike Modern Science. IV. — The Fine Promises of the Soph- 
ists ; Rhetoric as a Cure for Life's Woes. — Contempt for Science. V. — Socrates ; 
his Life. — His Novel Aim, and Method of Instruction. — His Ethical Teaching. — 
His Practical Side. — His Cross-examination of Civilization. — The Story of his 
Death. — His Following. — The Cynic and Cyrenaic Schools - 656 

CHAPTER II. 

PLA TO. 

I. — The Vast Importance of Plato to Modern Thought. — Mr. Benn on his 
Inconsistencies. — Platonism not to be Defined by one Word or Phrase. II. — The 
Life of Plato. — His Aristocratic Theories. — His Political Efforts for the Regenera- 
tion of Mankind. — His Journeys, etc. — His Work ; the Nature of the Dialogues. 
III. — His Accounts of Socrates; the Apology and the Crito. — Extracts. IV. — 
The General Dialogues: their Literary Charm. — Various Ones Analyzed: the 
Charmides, Lysis, Protagoras, Ion, Lesser Hippias, Meno. V. — The Symposium 
and the Phasdrus. — The Gorgias. — The Cratylus. — The Timaeus, etc. VI. — The 
Republic, its Utopianism and Aristocratic Longings. — The Generally Accepted 
Notion of Platonism. — His Theory of Ideas. VII.— His Followers and his Influ- 
ence, and his New Foundation for Ethics. VIII. — Extracts -.-•-- 686 

CHAPTER III. 

ARISTOTLE. 

I.— Aristotle's Unfortunate Rivalry with Plato. — His Life. — His Influence, 
Especially in the Middle Ages. — The Consequences of Exaggerated Praise not 
Unknown to Aristotle's Fame. II. — His Relations to his Predecessors. — His Inter- 
est in Scientific Study. — His Writings; their Lack of Literary Charm. — The Manner 
of their Preservation. III. — His Conception of Philosophy, and his Division of its 
Functions. — The Breadth of its Interests. — The Politics, etc. — His Repellant Style 
Compared with the Charm of Plato's. — The Safe Middle Path which he Follows. 
— His Cool Wisdom. IV. — The Poetics ; its Importance to Modern Literature. 
V. — Extracts. VI. — The Peripatetics, and the Latest Course of Philosophy. — 
Epicureans and Stoics - - - - - - - - - - -715 



XIV CONTENTS. 



BOOK VII.— HELLENISM. 



CHAPTER I. 

ALEXANDRIA, THEOCRITUS. page 

I. — The Succession of Alexandria to Athens. — The Intimate Relation of 
Alexandrinism to Modern Literature, through the Roman. — The Survival of Greek 
Intellectual Influence after Political Decay. — The Gradualness of the Change. 
II. — The Importance of Alexandria for the Cosmopolitan Sway of Greek Influ- 
ence. — Its Generous Equipment for its New Duties. — The Beginnings of Scholar- 
ship. III. — The Learning Influences the Literature. — Theocritus, and his Work. 
— Its Relation to Contemporary Art. — Bion and Moschus. IV. — Extracts - - 741 

CHAPTER II. 

THE TOE TR Y— Continued. 

I. — The Relation of the New Movement to the Later Condition of Athens. — 
Changed Treatment of Women, and their Influence.— The Pastorals and Elegies. 
— Antimachus. — The Growth of Literary Art, and Various Writers of Forgotten 
Fame. II. — Callimachus. — The Lyric Poetry. — The Drama. III. — The Epic 
Writers. — Apollonius Rhodius, and his Argonautics ; its Influence on Roman 
Writers. — The Didactic Poets: Aratus, Nicander, etc. — Some Minor Writers 
of Verse. IV. — Nonnus, and his Learned Epic. — Musaeus. V. — Quintus Smyr- 
nasus, and his Unexpected Vigor. — The Gradual Dwindling of Poetry. VI. — 
The Anthology. — Its Gradual Formation. — Its Abundance. — The Epigram. 
VII. — Extracts from the Anthology ________ 762 

CHAPTER III. 

THE TROSE. 

I— The Wide Circle of Hellenistic Culture. — The Abundance of Intellectual 
Interests in Alexandria and Elsewhere. — The Growth of Scholarship. — The 
Spread of Scientific Study. — Euclid. — Archimedes. — Astronomy. — Ptolemy. 
II. — The Importance of this Greek Scientific Work. — The Study of Medicine. — 
Galen. — His Vast Influence, like that of Ptolemy and Aristotle. —Its Long Life 
and Final Overthrow, possibly Portending an Altered View of All Things Greek. 
III. — The Grecian Influence in Rome.— The Difference between the Greek and 
Roman Ideals. IV. — Polybius ; his History and its Importance. — Extracts. 
V. — Other Historians : Diodorus Siculus. Dionysius of Halicarnassus, Strabo, 
Flavius Josephus --.______--- ygg 

CHAPTER IV. 

PLUTARCH. 

I. — Plutarch. — His Life and Work. — His Method. — His Attractive Simplicity. 
— His Influence. II. — His Naturalness and Impartiality. III. — Extracts. IV. — 
His Morals.— Extracts - - - - - -818 



CONTENTS. XV 

CHAPTER V. 

L UCIAN. page 

I. — Lucian, the Satirist. — The First of the Moderns. — More Greek than the 
Greeks of his Time. — His Life. II. — His Onslaughts upon the Moribund Religion. 
— His Dialogues. III. — The Broad Burlesque which he sometimes Employs 
against Gods, Philosophers, and Men of Letters. IV. — His Later Fame. — His 
Notion of Hades. — His Treatment of Gross Superstitions. — Alexander the 
Medium. — Various Writings of his. V. — His Wit, Comparison between it and 
the Same Quality as Exhibited by Others. — His Denunciation of Science. — His 
Exhibition of the General Condition of the Greek Man of Letters in those Times 830 

CHAPTER VI. 

PROSE WRITERS— Continued. 

I. — Literary Trifles not the Only Interests. — The New View of Moral Great- 
ness. — The Life of Epictetus. II. — Marcus Aurelius. — His Work as a Writer. 
III. — Philostratus, ancfhis Discussion of Literary and Artistic Subjects. IV. — 
The. Final Gatherings from Antiquity. — Athenaeus, and his Collection of Anec- 
dotes. — vElian. — Some Historians. V. — Pausanias. — Longinus, and his Literary 
Criticism. — The Later Philosophy. VI.— In 529, the Closing of the University of 
Athens, and th& Conversion of the Temple of Hermes into a Monastery. VII. — 
Further Fragments. — The Threshing of Threshed Straw - 845 

CHAPTER VII. 

THE GREEK ROMANCES. 

I. — This Confusion, Great as it was, Led to an Attempted Reorganization of 
Literary Work in the Romances. — The Method of Composition : Prominence of 
Love, Wildness of Incident, etc. II. — Iamblichus Xenophon of Ephesus. — Apol- 
lonius of Tyre. — Heliodorus. — The Modern Descendants of these Romances. 
III. — Achilles Tatius. — Chariton. IV.— Longus and his Pastoral. — The End - 860 




THE MUSES. 



GREEK LITERATURE. 



INTRODUCTORY. 

The Independence of the Greek Literature — Its Influence — Its Artistic Qualities. The 
People ; their Earliest History. The Country ; its Geography — The Possible 
Influence of Climate, etc. The Language. 



ON E of the most striking qualities of Greek literature is its originality ; 
it sprang, so to speak, from the soil, without marked traces of 
foreign admixture, adopting, to be sure, the forms which are employed 
independently by every other race that makes use of letters as a method 
of expression, but developing them more completely than has been 
done elsewhere. Starting in this way free in the main from outside 
influences, it grew under the hands of the most wonderful people that 
the world has ever known, to be the model for succeeding civilizations. 
In literature, as everywhere, the best wins ; and in studying the litera- 
ture of Greece we are really studying not merely forms of expression, 
rich thought, wise comment and explanation that are unfailing sources 
of delight and instruction, but also the foundations of nearly all the 
work that has been done since in every civilized country. The lines 
that the Greeks drew without rule or precedent have acquired an 



2 IN TROD UCTOR Y. 

authority which has given them the force of literary canons to inspire 
and direct subsequent work of the world. The quality that character- 
izes their literature has proved a model for their successors ; it has been 
absorbed, at times, with much conscious effort that has blurred the 
force of its influence, and the ultimate consequence of the whole ripen- 
ing of modern civilization has been to bring men back to wonder and 
admiration of their unparalleled performance. Naturally, Greek litera- 
ture is not a unit ; when we speak of some of its most brilliant successes 
we should properly define it as Athenian literature; and, too, the later 
work of the Alexandrians, which was the only instance of the Greeks 
imitating instead of directly producing, has been the main source of 
modern inspiration ; yet it is to be remembered that even then they 
were Greeks copying themselves, and not outside barbarians laying on 
an artificial polish. And, too, it is towards the best of the native Greek 
literature that men have gradually made their way with ever growing 
respect. They have at times lost the way and have given their devotion 
to what was second-best, but with a wider knowledge has come frank 
reverence for only the most characteristic of their productions. As 
the tracks where the first settlers strayed become the streets of the 
established city, so have the different paths of the Greeks become high- 
ways on which alone modern men have been free to move. Their epics, 
their lyrics, their drama, their histories, their philosophy, have left 
their mark on the taste of later generations. They imposed the laws 
which have ruled since their day, not so much by legislation, however, 
as by doing naturally what has been afterwards attempted by earnest 
effort. Their unconscious ease has been succeeded by the more or less 
deliberate attempts of those who have seen in the beauty of Greek 
work an ideal as well as a model. This, then, marks the important 
difference between the literatures of Greece on the one hand and on 
the other that of Rome and modern civilizations, that the first grew up 
untrammeled, as the natural expression of direct vision, while ever 
since men have seldom felt themselves free from the necessity of refer- 
ring to the foundations of literary art. 

Yet the general resemblance in the growth of different literatures 
can not be always explained as imitation. The path in which the 
Greeks trod has been followed independently by different races, among 
which we find that uniformly poetry precedes prose, and that the epic 
appears before the drama, so that we may safely conclude that the 
course of the Greek letters was in accordance with a form of develop- 
ment that marks all literature, that there is a uniformity in the actions 
of different races as there is between individuals, and that in both the 
difference is in the accomplishment rather than in the ends aimed at. 
To what extent this hypothesis is true, will be seen in the further study 



THE ORIGIN OF THE GREEKS. 3 

of Greek writings, but, granting a general analogy, we shall nowhere 
find the same brilliant performance that we find in Greece. Its whole 
literature is distinguished by a keen artistic sense that is made up of 
freshness and truth to nature. Everywhere the Greek shunned ex- 
aggeration. Unlike the Sanskrit writers he was impressive without 
being grandiose ; unlike the Chinese, he was simple without being 
puerile, and when we compare the Greek with more familiar literatures 
that have been built upon it, the difference becomes even plainer. As 
Taine has well said in his Philosophic de Vart en Grece, " A glance at 
their literature in comparison with that of the East, of the middle ages, 
and of modern times ; a perusal of Homer compared with the Divina 
Commedia, Faust, or the Indian epics ; a study of their prose in com- 
parison with any other prose of any other age or any other country, 
would be convincing. By the side of their literary style, every style 
is emphatic, heavy, inexact and unnatural ; by the side of their weird 
types, every type is excessive, gloomy, and morbid ; by the side of their 
poetic and oratorical forms, every form not based on theirs is out of 
all proportion, ill devised, and misshapen." Possibly this statement 
exemplifies the faults it names with profusion, but it also conveys the 
truth that the Greek work is distinguished by proportion, by modera- 
tion. 

This moderation was a quality that it possessed from the beginning, 
in, say, the tenth century before Christ, until the classic Greek literature 
faded out of existence in the sixth century of our era, for so long was 
its life. What then were the conditions in which we find it appearing ? 
The Greeks belonged to the Aryan family, the great branch of the 
human race that included Kelts, Slavs, Teutons, Lithuanians, Iranians, 
Indians, Latins and Greeks, or, possibly, more exactly, the races that 
first spoke these languages. The early home of the Aryans was long 
held to be the high plateau, north of the Himalayas, in Central Asia, 
but of late this hypothesis, which rested rather on ignorance of the facts 
than on definite knowledge, has been much shaken, and it has been 
held with plausibility that the once heretical notion that it had its home 
in Europe has some interesting arguments in its favor. Together 
with this hypothesis, which seems to have owed its origin to the general 
impression that Asia, with its historical antiquity, must have been the 
mother of nations, there has also succumbed any wide confidence in a 
remote special connection between the Italians and the Greeks. In 
the absence of definite knowledge this theory has flourished, as a bit 
of inheritance from the loftier repute, doubtless, of Greek and Roman 
antiquity, but it is only a hypothesis by no means firmly established. 
It has been maintained that the two races, besides their common inheri- 
tance, owned reminiscences of a union merely between themselves sub- 



INTRODUCTORY. 



sequent to their separation from the main stock, reminiscences, to be 
sure, of a very vague and shadowy kind, yet sufficient to prove their 
early union. But this is mere conjecture, built on a very slight founda- 
tion, and unable to present convincing proofs. The differences between 
the two races are too great to warrant any assertion of their original 
identity. At the first dawnings of history we find the Greeks settled 
in the land which is still the home of their descendants. 

Undoubtedly the early founders of this illustrious people formed a 
race that had risen but little above absolute savagery. Just as mathe- 
maticians are able to ascertain the height of a mountain without climb- 
ing it, so modern science has been enabled to collect from detached 
testimony a dim picture of the life of the pre-historic Aryan races. 

But the dimness of the pic- 
ture is still its most striking 
quality, although very vivid 
accounts have been made of 
the idyllic condition of society 
before the separation of the 
different component parts. 
Thus, they have been repre- 
sented as forming a peaceful 
collection of simple minded 
men, interested in pastoral 
pursuits, and enjoying all the 
pleasures which poets have set 
in the Golden Age. The 
family life of the early Aryans 
has been an especial object 
of enthusiastic praise ; the 
father, we have been told, was 
the protector and guardian ; 
the mother was a worthy 
housewife, who addressed her 
husband as "Master"; the 
daughter, or "milker," as she 
was named after her occupa- 
tion in the dairy, flattered 
her hard-working brother by calling him the " supporter," and all these 
words were yet new enough to carry with them full significance. These 
happy people did not live by agriculture alone ; they dwelt in houses 
in walled towns, built wagons, and boats with rudders, understood the 
art of weaving ; they painted pictures and composed poems ; indeed, 
modern civilization seems to have had a formidable rival in its remote 




A WOMAN (KORA) WITH A PLOW. 



TRACES OF THEIR ORIGINAL SAVAGENESS. 



5 



ancestors. In fact, however, enthusiasm has probably overreached 
itself in building from words alone this idyllic vision of the past, for it 
seems more likely that men had not yet acquired the use of metals, and 
enjoyed the meager civilization of the stone-age. Some memorials of 
this antiquity we see in the discovery of the lake-dwellings in the lake 
of Geneva, which are curiously like similar constructions in New Guinea. 
Even if these were the dwellings of an earlier race, the invading Aryans 
were but more slightly civilized, if indeed they enjoyed any superiority 
in this respect. It must be remembered that in the earliest poetical 
memorials that have reach- 
ed us, there are abundant 
traces of a wild and savage 
past, as when, for example, 
in the Iliad, Achilles drags 
the body of Hector around 
the walls of Troy, and bur- 
ies twelve captured Tro- 
jans at the grave of his 
friend Patroclus ; and in 
the mythology we find 
further instances of other 
barbarities of the gods. All 
these things go to show the 
existence of an earlier 
period of rank savagery. 

In prehistoric times they had risen, if not to such considerable civiliza- 
tion as has at times been described, yet to a great advance upon actual 
wildness. The stone and jade weapons had been wonderfully improved 
and adapted to many useful practical ends, agriculture had been prac- 
ticed, some animals had been tamed, the arts of tanning hides, braiding, 
spinning, and probably weaving were known, the rudiments at least of 
civilization had been painfully attained. The examination of their old 
ash-heaps and a host of other bits of evidence lead us to the opinion 
that for instance the first Aryan settlers in Italy were probably rather 
lower than the Celts and Germans when these were first mentioned in 
history. If we remember that the use of metals is one of the most 
important steps in the civilization of a race, and that this had 
not been learned by the Aryans until after their separation, it is easy 
and probably accurate to estimate the degree of their culture as some- 
thing yet extremely crude. The determining of dates in this misty 
period is obviously impossible. 

When and why the separation of the different races took place can not 
be determined. The Greeks, like almost all the Aryans at the begin- 




PENELOPE AT THE LOOM. 



INTRODUCTORY. 



ning of their history, imagined themselves the native, autochthonous 
inhabitants of the regions where they found themselves settled from 
time immemorial. There we find them at the first dawning of history, 
and there they had been for many years. 

Greece itself is a triangular shaped peninsula, with its northern base 
resting on what is now Turkey in Europe, extending southeasterly into 
the eastern part of the Mediterranean. Near the southeasterly part of 
this peninsula, another peninsula is attached to the northern portion, 

by the Isthmus of Corinth, that pro- 
jects into the sea south of the main- 
land with something of the shape of 
an ivy-leaf. This part was called the 
Peloponnesus. In addition there was 
a fringe of islands in the sea, and a 
small part of the coast of Asia. The 
whole country lies between the for- 
tieth and thirty-sixth degrees of lati- 
tude ; its greatest length is not more 
than two hundred and fifty miles ; its 
greatest breadth, about one hundred 
and eighty. The total area of the 
mainland is only a little more than 
twenty thousand miles or about one 
third of that of New England. This 
scanty region was sub-divided into 
many small states ; Attica, for in- 
stance, containing only about 
seven hundred and twenty miles, 
being thus a little more than half as large as the State of 
Rhode Island. What the country lacked in size it made up in 
variety. The outline was very large, greater than that of both 
Spain and Portugal, and the mountainous formations helped to secure 
the country from foreign invasion. These last had another, possibly 
less advantageous effect on the political history of the country in 
augmenting the sense of seclusion and diversity of the various states. 
Another direct effect was to give variety of climate ; in the highlands 
the snow lay deep till late in the spring, while at a lower level snow 
was never known. In the north, on the shore of the ^Egean Sea, the 
climate was harsh like that of central Europe ; on the southern slopes 
grew olives and grapes, and in the warmer regions figs, dates, and 
oranges. Athens especially enjoyed the advantages of a tropical land, 
being saved from intense heat, however, by cooling sea breezes. This 
variety in the productions protected the country from a monoton- 




DORIAN WARRIOR. 



THE GEOGRAPHICAL CONDITIONS. 7 

ous existence as a mere granary, and helped to make it an inde- 
pendent, self-supporting land, free from any one engrossing interest. 
Greece was not strong or simple-hearted enough to become a conquering 
nation ; it was defended by its position from its most powerful enemies ; 
and the comparative barrenness of its soil kept it a country in which, 
while life was easily supported, there was no temptation to seek for 
great gain. The compact seclusion of the various regions was doubt- 
less of very great influence in preventing the unification of the different 
divisions into one whole. The political system of Greece rested on the 
idea of the entire independence of each separate city, and its history 
is made up of the records of the wars which this condition of things 
called forth until its final termination in anarchy. Possibly the Greek 
mind, with its aversion to abstractions, could never have been tolerant 
of an arrangement which substituted a theoretical term for the form of 
rule which was open to daily inspection, and moreover gave to the citi- 
zens a lively sense of responsibility which knit politics with literature 
in a way to preserve both from remoteness of life. Yet a less doubtful 
reason was the geographical one, the natural limits of the separate divi- 
sions, the local importance of the leading city. Yet even this political 
unit was unknown in the earliest times ; the city grew up only by the 
amalgamation of separate villages, and even at the beginning of the 
Peloponnesian war, the remote parts of Greece, as in the northwest, 
consisted of detached hamlets. How far the existence of various 
boundaries and the great variety and unextravagant beauty of the 
scenery contributed to the formation of the Greek taste can not be 
definitely stated. We can now only mention the coincidence, and the task 
of science is simply removing inexplicability from observed coincidences. 
Although the question is a complicated one, it may yet be possible to 
recognize in the conditions of the Greek life some of the causes that 
led to the moderation of their taste and to their aversion to all forms 
of extravagance. In the land that they inhabited they saw no inac- 
cessible mountains ; there were no vast expanses of plain, no gloomy 
masses of forest ; the water that washed their shores did not present 
an unbroken vast expanse ; its surface was covered with numerous 
islands, there was no great sweep of a mysterious sea to overawe the 
imagination : every thing was limited and open to approach. These 
facts perhaps saved the Greeks from a perception of their own insig- 
nificance ; they were not overborne by the terrible relentlessness of 
nature and the impossibility of taming it. They escaped the depres- 
sion that other races knew in less gracious surroundings, just as a 
person brought up in comfort or luxury is unconscious of the huge 
store of misery that infolds the world. They had not ever present 
before them any terrible symbol of the cruelty of nature, and thus their 



8 IN TROD UC TOR Y. 

pictures of life were always marked by grace and freedom from exag- 
geration. 

Obviously, any such explanation can be no more than a mere hypoth- 
esis, but there were other causes which affected less obscurely the 
formation of the Greek character. The extent of their influence may 
be readily estimated by those who remember that the Greeks and 
Italians were equally descendants of one race, and that at their first 
appearance in history they were already marked by sharply distinct 
traits. The abundant coastline of Greece, the barrenness of its soil, 
the number of fertile islands within easy sailing distance, contributed 
to the formation of the many-sidedness of this people, by facilitating 
commerce and exploration, and by adapting them to a varied, unmonoto- 
nous existence. They were, moreover, thus brought into early contact 
with other races of advanced civilization, whose arts and sciences they 
swiftly absorbed and made their own ; what was thus acquired they at 
once elevated into something beyond what had satisfied its original 
owners. Nature thus marked out Greece as a spot where an intelli- 
gent race, exceptionally preserved from anxious care on the one hand, 
and from no less fatal prosperity on the other, might be free to 
develop itself under the impulse, but not under the shadow, of riper 
civilizations. It was an aristocratic immunity from sordidness and 
materialism, as well as from the tiresome sameness of an agricultural 
life, that the whole race enjoyed, and with the advantage that the race 
was one in which subtlety, delicacy, and intelligence were the common 
property of the whole people and not a costly exotic that was to be 
acquired by only a few. The struggle for mere existence was not so 
severe that half the men were turned into machines while the other half 
found their chief delight in physical comfort ; but life was easy for all 
who were free, and the higher interests were never crushed out of the 
majority, as generally happens in our modern civilizations. 

The Greeks had other qualities of an aristocracy : they were few in 
numbers, and they were not marked by monotonous similarity. The 
two main families into which they were divided were the ^Eolian and 
the Ionic, to which must be added the Dorian and Athenian, who in 
time acquired the greatest prominence in the political and literary 
history of their country. The ^Eolian branch never attained equal 
importance ; their qualities were less peculiarly Greek than those of 
their fellow countrymen, who were later never tired of casting their 
faults in their teeth. The Boeotians, for instance, were despised as a 
coarse, sordid people, without interest in intellectual matters, who 
shared the qualities of their heavy air and thick soil. The Dorians, 
originally a single people, soon grew to be a large branch. They 
were a genuine mountain-race, who after the Trojan war invaded the 



THE SUBDIVISIONS OF THE RACE. 



Peloponnesus where they gradually established themselves and acquired 
new power. The Dorians possessed sturdy, energetic, conservative 
traits which preserved and extended a certain rugged virtue, but paid 
for it the usual price of harshness and a latent hostility to high civil- 
ization. The Ionians, on the other hand, who settled on the coast of 
Asia Minor, soon ripened into 
an accomplished and brilliant 
race, whose charm and flexibil- 
ity stand in marked contrast 
with the severity of the Dorians. 
They founded colonies and dis- 
seminated their curiosity about 
life by their early attention to 
literature, and not to the poeti- 
cal side alone but also to history 
and geography, as well as to 
philosophy and science. The 
Athenians were most closely 
allied with the Ionians, and they 
carried out most fully what 
these had begun. In all that 
they did they left the mark 
of grace and that highest art 
which is simplicity. Their 
glories will become sufficiently 
clear in the progress of this 
book, and it will be seen how 
much splendor they threw on 
the whole country. For, after 
all, distinct as were the various 
qualities of the different Greek 
races, they all combined to 
form a national character which 
stands in sharp contrast with 
that of other peoples. They 
shared, though in unequal 
measure, certain common properties, the love of freedom, keen interest 
in public affairs, poetical fancy, and a disposition for eloquence ; they 
all possessed a sensitiveness to beauty and a delicacy of perception, 
which made them a unit in the face of foreign nations, although they 
were alive to their several family differences. Similar differences in 
what yet formed a separate entity, were those of the various dialects 
of the one Greek language, which belonged to the different branches 




dorian GIRL. — {Victor in the races.') 



1 ° IN TROD UCTOR Y. 

of the nation. And just as the Attic division became the most im- 
portant, the language as they spoke it became the most authoritative 
and finally the only prevalent one. The wealth of the Greek tongue 
in its earliest traces proves that it was the product of a long prehistoric 
development. What the language was in the Homeric poems it sub- 
stantially remained throughout the whole period in which Greek 
literature flourished : a rich, copious means of expression, abounding 
in words that readily lent themselves to the formation of compounds, 
and with a flexible syntax that well represented the Greek subtlety 
and ingenuity. Of course it was not a mere chance that gave this 




ATHENIAN COSTUMES. 



race so marvelous an instrument ; they created it rather by the need 
which they felt for expressing their own thoughts. As has been said, 
its ripe form indicated a long past ; a language like the Greek does 
not grow in a day, and other proofs of its antiquity are not lacking. 
In their earliest work that has come down to us in a state of comple- 
tion, that is to say in the Homeric poems, we find a degree of poetic 
excellence that bears indubitable evidence of a long line of predeces- 
sors. Every successful work implies a host of failures ; the opinion 
that the facility and grace of the Homeric hexameter were a special 
creation out of nothing by a gifted man, is one that has long 
held %way over men's minds, fostering mistaken views concerning the 
miraculous qualities of genius; yet the examination of every case can 
but confirm the opposite view. Wherever we have all the testimony, 



THEIR GENIUS NOT MIRACULOUS. II 

we see failures preceding the final success, and the slow growth of 
victory, as inevitably as we see the growth of all phenomena. What 
has at first seemed to be the product of some one half-inspired person 
has, when closely studied, turned out to be only the full development 
of a crude past. Such is uniformly the case in modern literatures, in 
which alone we have all the evidence, while of the classic literatures 
we have in general scarcely any thing but the best performance. Only 
their most famous work remains in sight above the flood of oblivion, 
and from the existence of two literatures, consisting mainly of master- 
pieces, it was easy to imagine that the ancients possessed the art, since 
lost, of producing great work without an apprenticeship. The indis- 
criminating ( fervor, too, of praise poured out on Greek literature 
has at times given to the difficult task of examining its growth the 
appearance of irreverence and iconoclasticism. To be sure, this evil 
spirit of analysis has met no more formidable opposition than the asser- 
tion that the great writers, being creative, are hence superior to mole- 
eyed criticism, but this assertion is itself open to doubt, and within the 
last hundred years the whole point of view has been in process of 
change. 



BOOK I.— THE EPICS. 



CHAPTER I.— THE HOMERIC QUESTION. 

I. — The Beginnings of Literature — The Influence of Religious Feeling — The Traces of 
Early Song. II. — The Hexameter, and its Possible Growth. III. — The Homeric 
Poems — The References to an Earlier Period — The Ionic Origin of the Poems— 
The Existence of Homer. IV. —The Long Discussion of this Subject: Bentley, 
Wolf, etc. Possible Date of the Compositions of these Poems — Archaeological 
Illustrations. 

I. 

IN time the notion of what literature is, has undergone serious 
modification, and it has been gradually becoming plain that it is 
unwise to speak of it as a separate concrete thing which may be detached 
from life and, as it were, be put on a shelf to be taken down at odd 
moments for examination like a bundle of dry bones. Yet so readily 
are unknown coins used as counters, and words employed as a substitute 
for thought, that literature and art have been, and for that matter still 
are, spoken of as if they were separate and remote exercises in com- 
position rather than the utterances of human beings, the representation 
of men's thoughts and feelings, the fixed shadows of generations of 
men. Of no people is it truer than of the Greeks, that their litera- 
ture is not an artificial product, but the race speaking. The most im- 
portant thing to remember in studying their writings is that these are 
the direct expression of a free people, leading its own life, untrammeled 
by inherited rules or authoritative convention. This is the keynote to 
the comprehension of Greek literature, and one that it is not perfectly 
easy for us to understand, trained as we are to look at life not directly, 
but through the eyes of some one else, and accustomed to learn methods 
rather than to exercise direct vision. Only within the last hun- 
dred years, and in some part under the inspiration of the Greeks, have 
we begun again to see that life itself is something greater, vaster, and 
more solemn than any literary method. 

While the Iliad and the Odyssey are the earliest Greek poems that 
have come down to us, it has become plain that they mark, as all the 
best work does, the end rather than the beginning of a great movement. 
Yet everywhere the earliest songs are those of a religious nature, and 



THE GREEK GODS. 



13 



before men begin to draw pictures of society, indeed before there is 
any society for them to draw, their attention is called to their relations 
with the world about and above them with all its mysteries and terrors. 
From the earliest times men grope for some religious explanation of 
the various phenomena that they observe, and their first utterances are 
the expression of their ready wonder and equally ready explanations. 
From fancied or observed coincidences, through thousands of imagined 
explanations, there grows up a mass of myths about the impressive 
order and apparent willfulness of nature, such as we find to have been 
the common property of the whole Aryan family, which developed 
into the adoration and personification of natural forces and phenomena. 
This underlies the Greek religion, but yet it is not a sufficient explana- 
tion to call this simply a nature wor- 
ship. Zeus did not rule as a mere 
vast natural force ; Poseidon was 
more than the mighty spirit of the 
deep ; the gods were, rather, exalted 
beings who retained as their appurte- 
nances these qualities of the forces 
of nature, but they had developed in 
the clear sunlight of the Greek mind 
into something like civilized human 
beings, devoid of cruel and mon- 
strous qualities, and subject to the 
higher rule of ethical law. Inasmuch 
as the first thing that strikes us in 
examining the Greek mythology is 
the absence of what we may call 
municipal law in Olympus, and the 
social laxity of the divine beings, the 
mention of their subjection seems 
absurd. Their frequent infractions 
of the moral law seem to con- 
tradict the notion of their subordi- 
nation to ethical control, and since it 
is man and not nature that is moral, 
it has been held that the Greek religion was purely a worship of nature. 
But other testimony destroys the absolute sway of this theory. In 
the Homeric poems we find the gods but little removed from the con- 
dition of extraordinary people. Even before Homer the deities seem 
to have met more than half way the men who were promoted to their 
company ; the relics of nature-worship survived, but as attributes of a 
worshiped deity, not as themselves objects of adoration. Thus Apollo 




OLYMPIAN ZEUS. 



14 THE HOMERIC QUESTION. 

was the sun-god, but it was the god and not the sun that received the 
prayers and thanks of men. 

Nothing again, to consider the ethical control of the gods, is remoter 
from the Greek mind than the notion of lawlessness. It would espe- 
cially ill become such half-human deities as those who filled its Olympus, 
and in the most frequent as well as the most solemn expressions of 
this literature we find continual reference to the existence of a higher 
law that rules over gods as well as men, and the belief in this equable 
justice was the core of their religion. In Homer, Herodotus, .^Eschylus, 
Pindar, Simonides, Sophocles, we find the statement of this principle 
which also animated the philosophers and the populace. What is most 
striking about this faith is its coherence with the general attitude of 
the Greek mind towards the universe with its abhorrence of inexplica- 
ble and willful forces. Harmony was the law of its being, in art and 
literature as well as in religion, and above and beyond the gods with an 
incrustation of baffling and discordant myths lay a wise fate that ruled 
mysteriously but with justice. This was their solution, a harmonious 
omnipotence directing gods and men. 

How it grew up we can not affirm any more than we can affirm in 
what manner the principles that we find in their earliest work grew up. 
It is hard enough to show that they are there, but it may yet be said that 
its existence at the remotest times is another proof of the existence of 
a very long past of which only meager traces survive. In the Homeric 
poems we find reference to this venerable antiquity in the mention of 
the poems sung to propitiate Apollo at the time of the plague that 
visited the camp of the Achaians, and as a hymn of victory for Hector's 
death. Battle-songs, dance-songs, and military dances had a remote 
religious origin, for the solemnity of religious exercises preserves the 
oldest customs unchanged, and many of these found their way into 
the subsequent development of profane poetry. Thus when men called 
on the gods by many names under the belief that one of these might 
be more acceptable to him than another, and attempted to conciliate 
him by recounting his exploits, they were, in a way, laying some of 
the foundations of profane poetry, as they were doing when they sang 
the bold deeds of some great leader; thus we see the language and 
measures acquiring the use which was afterwards of profit to literature. 
The oracles, too, were of another ancient religious form. 

In all these ways the use of songs was frequent : the deeds of heroes, 
for instance, were perpetuated by minstrels from an early date, and 
traces of their existence are to be found in the Homeric poems. Thus 
Homer — to adopt for convenience the name of the alleged author of 
the Iliad and Odyssey — calls Achilles swift-footed, but nothing in the 
Iliad justifies the use of this name, which was apparently inherited from 



THE POPULAR SONGS— THE HEXAMETER. 15 

the poets who sang other incidents of the hero's career. They had an 
abundance of subjects to choose from, and Homer frequently refers to 
myths and legends that could scarcely have been overlooked by the 
wandering bards, like those whom he mentions in the Odyssey. Of 
other forms of popular poetry there are abundant traces, such as the 
wedding and funeral chants and the many little songs of daily life ; for 
farmers, mechanics, workmen of all sorts had their special favorite 
poems, from which grew the familiarity of the people with poetical 
melody and that general interest in song without which poetry is but a 
cold, artificial thing. In the numerous riddles, fables, catches, proverbs, 
and local legends, we see other familiar forms of verse. Names 
of the authors of these various songs and sayings are naturally enough 
lost in the same obscurity that always accompanies the beginnings of 
popular literature. In later times the effort was made to relieve this 
ignorance of the past by the invention of a number of bards who were 
thrust into the dark period somewhat indiscriminately. Orpheus is a 
pure invention, as mythical as his Sanskrit compeer, the ideal poet 
Rithu. Musaeus, the Servant of the Muses, and Eumolpus, the Good 
Singer, show by their names that they sprang from the brains of some 
grammarian, and the rest are similar shadows. While the names of 
the earliest singers are lost as hopelessly as those of the private soldiers 
in the Trojan war, their existence is proved by the excellence of the 
Homeric epics, and by the fixed formulas that are among the un- 
mistakable reminiscences of those poems. 

II. 

Another strong proof of a long growth is the smoothness of the 
hexameter, one of the most wonderful products of the Hellenic intelli- 
gence. Yet it is not to be understood that the Greeks created this 
amazing instrument out of hand. Far from it ; in the first place no 
such complicated mechanism is ever suddenly created by any man, or 
set of men, however brilliant ; and moreover, even if such creation were 
possible, it was unnecessary, for the Greeks already possessed, in com- 
mon with the rest of the Aryan family, a rudimentary measure out of 
which they developed this favorite form. This common property of 
the whole family, or at least of the Indian and Iranian division, the 
Germanic, and the Greco-Italic, consisted of averse, formed of two dis- 
tinctly separate parts, each of which contained four ictuses and four 
unaccented syllables ; each part beginning with an unaccented syllable 
and ending with an ictus. This four-timed half-verse underlies the 
oldest songs of the Germanic races as well as the early Vedic hymns, the 
crude Saturnian verse of Italian races, and formed the basis of the 



1 6 THE HOMERIC QUESTION. 

Greek hexameter in the hands of the race that touched it only to bring 
it to perfection. The measure, still familiar to children beginning their 
lessons at the dancing-school, — the left foot forward three times, then 
right and left, in four time, was the basis of the mingled song and 
dance, forward and back, or to the right or left and back, practiced at 
the earliest sacrifices of our remote ancestors, thus forming another 
instance of the way in which, as Sir John Lubbock says, the sports or 
lessons of children reproduce early stages in the history of mankind. 
Possessed by all before this separation, in the hands of the Greeks it 
grew to the condition in which we find it in the early epic, the fitting 
instrument for those wonderful poems. That they brought it to its 
perfection is but one, and not the least important, of their many 
accomplishments. 



III. 



Such are some of the reminiscences of the forgotten past that survive 
in the work of Homer, but, as we have seen, they are not the only ones. 
The development of the language into the rich, copious, and flexible 
instrument which we find there, belongs also to the indirect proofs of 
the already great age of the race. More than this, it is to be noticed 
that Homer mentions the minstrels who sang the past glories of admired 
heroes. The repose which followed the period of migrations gave an 
opportunity for fuller literary development by securing the perspective 
which is as essential for a poem as a picture. It was in the colonies 
established on the coast of Asia Minor, and especially in the central 
region, Ionia, that civilization first appeared. Doubtless, intercourse 
with older foreign countries contributed, if not a model, at least many 
valuable influences and suggestions of custom, which were soon modified 
by the ingenious spirit of the Greeks. The colonies also preserved 
distinct memories of their mother-country ; the emigrants had carried 
with them their old legends and traditions, yet it is only natural that 
the subject which had most interest for them was the description of 
the victory of the Greeks over the Asiatics in the Trojan war. For 
this they would have a feeling which they could not have for the legends 
that referred to events that took place on Greek soil. Both their 
inherited patriotism and that which their new home inspired, would 
lend to this story a fascination which the many other tales of Greece 
would have been unable to arouse. It was the same interest that the 
Spaniards felt for the Cid ; or that the writers of later epics have pre- 
sumed to exist with regard to their heroes. 



THE HOMERIC QUESTION. 17 

So much is probable, or, to be safer, so much is possible, that 
the Homeric poems were of Ionic origin. Any one, however, who feels 
emboldened to make any further statements about their composition, 
finds his path a thorny one, for the Trojan war is not yet over, and any 
definite affirmation that may be made about it is likely to call forth 
serious opposition. In regard to so unsettled a matter it may be best 
simply to state some of the conditions that render certainty about 
Homer and the Homeric poems extremely difficult. In the first place 
the question as to whether or not Homer, the author of the Iliad and 
Odyssey, ever lived, is one that finds waiting it two widely distinct 
answers. Until towards the end of the last century, the existence of 
Homer was no more generally doubted than that of Virgil. Yet even 
the many birthplaces that were assigned him by popular tradition could 
not save him from modern criticism, and while the superfluous claim- 
ants for the honor of fellow-citizenship with Homer could never come 
to agreement, their unusual number was held to corroborate the opinion 
that he certainly must have lived at some time and at some place. 
Under the impression that there was a Homer, his bust was made, 
evidently at a time when sculpture was in a flourishing condition, but 
its existence no more proves that the poet ever lived than does the 
famous statue in the Belvedere of the Vatican prove that Apollo ever 
actually appeared in human form. Both do but attest what most of 
the Greeks generally believed. 



IV. 

Already in antiquity a few writers held that the Iliad and Odyssey 
were probably written by different men, but this view met with no 
wide acceptance and was commonly regarded as a mere paradox. 
During the tutelage of modern civilization the views of the ancients 
prevailed, especially with regard to their own writings, and during the 
greater part of the last century the traditions of Homer who composed 
the Iliad and Odyssey remained almost unquestioned. A century 
earlier, indeed, Fenelon in his De V Existence de Dieu, brought forward 
the writings of these poems by a man of genius as an argument in 
favor of the analogous creation of the world by an all-wise ruler of the 
universe ; yet at about the same time, the Abbe d'Aubignac, who is 
only known now for his unfaltering allegiance to the three unities, 
affirmed that it was impossible that a Homer ever lived, and gave 
utterances to skeptical views concerning the origin of the Homeric 
poems. But this was a mere vague statement by an unlearned man 
who expressed an opinion without the capacity to support and defend 



THE HOMERIC QUESTION. 



,*aS***!S 



it by any other argument than mere abuse of all Greek literature, 
which he set much lower than that of Rome. This view of the 
superiority of Latin literature was one that belonged to the whole age 
between the expiration of Humanism in the seventeenth century and 
the beginning of the Romantic movement at the end of the eighteenth, 
a period of benumbing reaction in literature, art, and politics, against 
individuality and independence. The tamer merits of the Latin 
writers found sympathizing admirers in men who felt disgust with the 
extravagances of the later writers who drew their inspiration from the 
Renaissance. The Roman literature was the readiest model of cor- 
rectness and of what could be done 
by training, and the study of the less 
formal Greek consequently lan- 
guished, surviving mainly because it 
was the language in which the New 
Testament was written. Through- 
out Europe the tepid excellence and 
echoing rhetoric of the Latin writers 
prevailed almost without opposi- 
tion ; Statius, Lucan, and Virgil 
were the admired models. If we 
consider England alone, we shall 
recall Pope's ignorance of Greek, 
Addison's very moderate command 
of the tongue, Dr. Johnson's supe- 
rior knowledge of Latin ; and the 
history of education there and on 
the continent makes it clear that 
when men spoke of the classics they 
meant the Latin writers, and that 
the influence of the Greek was almost 
nothing. 
The quarrel between the ancients and the moderns, as it is called, 
which broke out in England, France, and Italy at the end of the 
seventeenth century, was full of unexpected results for both ancient 
and modern literature, for it rendered necessary a general overhauling 
of men's opinions concerning both. The most modern of the moderns 
agreed in giving Homer an inferior place ; at this the scholars took fire 
and began to sing the praises of the old poet. They were further 
driven to amending their rusty scholarship. In England the discus- 
sion called forth from Bentley (1662-1742) his exposure of the ungen- 
uineness of the so-called letters of Phalaris, which was a serious attack 
on the previous rhetorical, uncritical reading of the ancients. The 




THE HISTORY OF GREEK STUDIES. 1 9 

work which Bentley began in this way, he carried further in his 
later investigations, and he thus deserves the credit of establishing mod- 
ern scholarship on the lines which it has since followed. He gave only 
incidental attention to what afterwards became the still unsettled 
Homeric question, yet in 171 3 we find him denying the current notion 
that the Iliad and the Odyssey were fables ingeniously devised by a 
moral teacher for the purpose of carrying allegorical instruction to 
mankind. Thus Pope, in the preface to his translation of the Iliad, 
speaks of the allegorical fable as one of the many causes of admiration, 
and treats the poem throughout as a bit of literary composition, an 
artificial product. Anthony Collins, in his Discourse of Free Think- 
ing, had said that Homer " designed his poem for eternity, to please 
and instruct mankind." " Take my word for it," said Bentley, "poor 
Homer, in those circumstances and early times, had never such aspiring 
thoughts. He wrote a sequel of songs and rhapsodies, to be sung by 
himself for small earnings and good cheer at festivals and other days 
of merriment ; the Iliad he made for men, and the Odyssey for the 
other sex. These loose poems were not collected together in the form 
of an epic poem till Pisistratus' time." This again was but a side asser- 
tion, thrown out without the proof that only longer and more careful 
study could supply. The same opinion, however, found frequent 
expression in the books of separate authors, for every important mod- 
ification of the generally accepted views on any given subject is com- 
monly preceded by a running fire that shows that many men are 
working in the same direction. Thus Vico in Italy, and a Professor 
Blackwell of Aberdeen, made very similar statements on this question. 
Robert Wood's Essay on the Original Genius of Homer, published in 
1775, was another important contribution to the general discussion. 
On the one hand it disposed of the moribund notion that Homer had 
composed his poems with a didactic intention and substituted for it 
the representation of a man of vast native genius, therein, it will be 
noticed, agreeing with the then new and now vanishing idea of genius 
as an inspirer of literary composition ; on the other, it proposed a pos- 
sibly more useful novelty, for it contained an account of his visit to 
Troy and an attempt to test Homer's descriptions by an examination 
of the sites mentioned in the Iliad. 

All these instances, as well as the increasing number of translations, 
attest the growth of general interest in Homer. The whole course of 
men's thoughts was in process of change, a new generation was turn- 
ing from outworn traditional authority to the study of nature and 
original literatures, and the investigation of the earliest Greek poems 
gave men the same delight that they received from the study of their 
own national beginnings ; for in fact they were going back to the 



20 THE HOMERIC QUESTION. 

beginning of all modern civilization. What had before seemed harsh 
and violent in Homer no longer needed to be apologized for, as Pope 
had done for "the vicious and imperfect manners" of his heroes. 
Wider knowledge brought its reward in the greater tolerance of what 
had shocked those men who drew their notions of what a hero should 
be, and do, and say, from what we may call the secondary literatures. 
With this tolerance there came, however, a certain intolerance of 
artifice and literary conventions. This, however, is not only remote 
from ancient literature, it is anticipating the changes in modern taste. 
Only very gradually did the Latin literature lose its former superiority, 
and did aesthetic criticism give way to modern criticism, which consists 
rather of scientific examination of the historical growth than of mere 
enforcement of conventional taste. Along with this change appeared 
the decay of imitation as the groundwork of literature. By the direct 
application of the altered views concerning the classics, Lessing and 
Winckelmann led the way to the purer and remoter Greek classicism, 
and to the general overhauling of long accepted dogmas. The new 
study of modern literature, the exhumation of old ballads and popular 
poems, threw unexpected light on Greek antiquity, and in 1795, F. A. 
Wolf, who is rightly called the father of modern philology, published 
his Prolegomena. The effect of this book on the studies of the classics 
has been really incalculable ; it is scarcely too much to say that its 
appearance clearly marked the period when the modern mind, which 
had hitherto been trained under the influence of Roman literature* 
attained its majority, and became able to instruct and correct its old 
classical teachers. Modern science overthrew the old classical tradi- 
tion, but in so doing, while it revised, it renewed, our connections with 
antiquity by proving the historical rather than the purely pedagogical 
relation of the past to the present. The aim of Wolf 's book was to show 
that the Iliad and the Odyssey were not composed by a single poet, 
Homer, but that each of them, and more particularly the Iliad, was made 
up of a number of separate songs by different authors. For a long time, 
for hundreds of years, these heroic songs describing incidents of the 
siege of Troy had circulated among the Greek tribes ; each one nar- 
rated but a single incident of the war, and had been composed for 
singing, with the accompaniment of the lyre, at banquets and festivals. 
In time, these songs were combined into orderly groups and then into 
complete wholes, very much as we now have them, and were finally 
written down in permanent form by the command of Pisistratus in the 
sixth century before Christ. 

These views of Wolf's at once made a great stir, and received from 
many persons warm welcome. Others again were pained by what 
seemed to them the irreverence of Wolf's propositions, for at no time 



WOLF'S PROLEGOMENA. 2I 

in the history of modern literature was the impression stronger that 
sheer genius could accomplish any thing it undertook. In Germany, 
however, there was also growing the principle which has given that 
country the lead it now holds in most matters of scholarship, namely, 
that what had previously seemed the work of creation proved on closer 
examination to be the product of growth. This view, which was first 
clearly uttered by Herder, underlies the modern opinion regarding 
Homer. Even at the present day, however, although in Germany 
the disbelief in Homer's personality may be said to be the prevailing 
opinion, there are still men of great learning and keen intelligence, 
who refuse to accept Wolf's views. In France and England there are 
still more, for often scholarship is influenced by national pride, and the 
fact that the Germans hold an opinion has been known to delay its 
acceptance among its morbidly patriotic neighbors. Long after 
Wolf's views were current in Germany, and had made over classical 
scholarship, they were without influence in France and England. 
Since the war of 1870, however, France has assimilated more 
German thought and learning than it had done in fiftyyears before ; 
and if England lags behind, we must remember that a great deal of 
valuable material reaches its shores only as wreckage. 

It is not necessary to give a detailed account of all the modifications 
of the original heresy that have been suggested by German scholars. 
The vagueness of every explanation of the way in which the poems 
grew into their present shape has given them all perfect freedom to 
arrange the particulars as might seem best. Lachmann, to mention 
one of the most important, in his examination of the Iliad, imagined 
that he found sixteen (or, counting the last two books, eighteen) dis- 
tinct lays by different authors and without connection. Each lay, he 
held, was at first complete in itself, but was afterwards expanded, 
and was finally brought into its present shape by the recension of 
Pisistratus. Grote, again, in the History of Greece, suggested that 
the Iliad consisted of an earlier Achilles (to which belong bks. 1, 8, 
1 1-22 ; the 23d and 24th being later), and an Iliad proper, composed 
of bks. 2-7, and 10. The ninth book, he holds, was composed later. 
Those who have defended the Iliad as the work of a creative genius 
have maintained equally diverse views. They agree, however, in 
opposing Wolf's statement with an unbroken negative. When he 
argued that the poems are too long to have been composed and handed 
down to us without the use of writing, which only came into vogue 
later, they affirm that there were many persons in classic times who 
knew them all by heart ; and that in other countries, as in Iceland and 
India, long and important poems have been handed down by oral 
transmission. To Wolf's argument that such extensive works would 



a THE HOMERIC QUESTION. 

never have been composed unless for readers as well as hearers, they 
reply that the poems themselves were of sufficient popularity to bring 
and keep together delighted and unwearied listeners. This affirmation 
that the poems did not exist as a whole until the time of Pisistratus, 
they directly deny ; and the numerous contradictions and inaccuracies 
they match with instances from the works of laterpoets. Yet the extent 
to which what we may call the attack has been carried on since by Wolf's 
followers, has had the effect of introducing many modifications in 
the defense, and almost every writer in behalf of Homer has found 
himself compelled to accept some of the statements of his adversaries. 
The original Homer survives, but often in an unrecognizable shape, and 
frequently his best friends strip him of much of his ancient glory. 
Bergk, for instance, acknowledges that the original work of Homer 
was much modified and enlarged by his successors. Their main argu- 
ment, however, is the unanimous voice of antiquity in behalf of single 
authorship and the general consistency of the Iliad. Only genius, it is 
affirmed, could make use of the abundant material that undeniably 
existed and weave it into a harmonious and generally consistent whole. 
The discussion, if it has left Homer still to be wrangled over, has yet 
been of service in accustoming scholars to apply to the investigation 
of classical subjects a method of examination which rests rather on 
science than on prepossession. Modern scholarship may be said to 
have begun with this controversy, which has seriously shaken the blind 
confidence in the power of genius to accomplish whatever it may wish ; 
even Homer's most earnest supporters have ceased to regard him as a 
man who thought suddenly of an epic poem as one thinks of the 
answer to a riddle. Then, too, the fact that the question is really 
insoluble has given it an eternal freshness and made its discussion an 
important part of education, for scarcely any training is more 
valuable than the weighing of evidence, which is, after all, the main 
business of life. And even those who still cling to the belief that 
Homer created these two poems out of his own head by sheer genius, 
may perhaps be willing to acknowledge that the long discussion, which 
they hold to be unconvincing, has at least helped men to sounder views 
on general questions of literature ; and it is hard to doubt that its 
influence will not continue to promote wider study. In oneway, how- 
ever, they will perhaps object to a possible result, for the examination of 
the early literature of remote races can not fail in time, by the mere 
accumulation of evidence, to enlarge men's sympathies beyond the 
limits of Greece and Rome. To some this will seem an irreverent 
misuse of study, for to scholars of a certain sort the real Holy Land is 
Greece, and any thing which exposes its literature to comparison with 
what has been done in outside regions will meet as much opposition 



THE MODERN METHODS OF STUDY. 23 

as did the science of philology, when it began to assert its claims, and 
to show the relation between Greek and Latin and all the members of 
the Indo-European family. It is obvious, however, that only in this 
way can literature be profitably studied, and that it will tend to 
diminish delight can not be shown by analogy from the other sciences. 
Interest in geology has not been proved to have diminished men's 
love of natural scenery, nor are botanists conspicuous for their indif- 
ference to the beauty of flowers. On the other hand, it would be 
fairer to say that their enthusiasm only increases with their knowledge, 
that their notions of beauty are enlarged by study, that the man who 
knows the most about any given subject loves it most. The much 
commended system of learning any thing about literature solely by 
studying beautiful extracts, is necessarily one-sided and insufficient. 
We should laugh at those who read Shakspere only in this way, and 
what is true of him is true of Greek literature or of any other litera- 
ture, that only when taken as a whole can the full secret of its beauty 
be intelligently perceived. The connotations of wit, eloquence, 
grace, simplicity are only fully appreciated when we can understand 
the general condition of interest in these matters and the degree 
of accomplishment already attained. Of this absolute value we 
know practically nothing, and our efforts to define it only define 
ourselves. 

We may say indeed with perfect truth that we also know nothing 
or next to nothing about the conditions in which the poems were pro- 
duced. We know only that the Greeks were settled in Greece and on 
the eastern coast of Asia Minor, and we have a certain number of 
baffling legends and myths regarding their hopelessly obscure past, as 
well as a few equally puzzling memorials of an uncertain antiquity, 
and suddenly we are confronted by these two poems which stand 
unrivaled in their wonderful portrayal of human nature. Achilles, 
Patroclus, Hector, Andromache and Penelope — and the list does not 
end with them — remain now, as they appeared in the dawn of history, 
full of noble feelings, accurately portrayed, living people in fact, so 
wonderful is the poet's skill, and their various fates are recounted with 
a perfection of form that delights every reader and inspires questions 
which in spite of a multitude of voices yet await an answer. The 
Ionian Greeks were settled in a region that was already the home of 
older and riper culture, and traces of its influence may be found in 
some of the arts, though there is no sign of it to be found in this 
early poetry. There, at least, there is no reason for doubting, we have 
an original outgrowth of the Greek intelligence, and especially of 
that part of the race, yEolic and Ionic, which had made its home 
in Asia. But more than this, as to which of these two elements 



24 



THE HOMERIC QUESTION. 



was the more prominent, assertion is difficult, indeed impossible, and 
when we ask who wrote the poems, we get no convincing answer. 

Whether or not a Homer 
wrote the Iliad is but one of the 
questions that divide scholars. 
The calm security with which 
students used to read in the 
chronological tables that the 
Trojan war began 1198 B. c. 
b^ and ended with the fall of Troy 
QJ in 1 187, is wholly gone, and in 
its place has arisen uncertainty 
whether there was any war at 
all, while if there was one, its 
date is anything but fixed. The 
main authority for the war is 
the poem itself, although the 
account is in good part made 
up of unhistoric incidents. Yet 
when we remember that scien- 
tific statement was a thing as 
impossible at that time as the 
power to write an epic poem is 
now, we shall not be intimi- 
dated by the inexactness with 
which the story is told. Still, 
even with the best will in the 
world, it is not possible to go 
further than to affirm, at the 
most, more than the probability 
of some historic foundation for 
the poet's invention, and his- 
tory is not a record of prob- 
abilities. The war, if it was 
^ ever waged, was one of the 
3 earliest of the long line of con- 
flicts between the East and 
Europe, and it is possibly not 
a mere coincidence that the 
editing of the poems by order 
of Pisistratus, if it ever hap- 
pened, should have taken place 
shortly before the great Persian 




THE HOMERIC QUESTION. 2 5 

war, when the Homeric poems helped to encourage the patriotism of the 
Greeks by recounting the glories of their ancestors. Some few writers 
indeed hold that only at this time were these epic poems brought into 
their present condition, that before then what was known to the 
ancients as Homer was very different from our Homer, and included 
all the abundant epic literature. This view is supported by the refer- 
ences of the older poets to Homer which are not to be found in our 
present texts. Yet this interesting suggestion obviously does not 
touch the question before us, the possible historical basis of the 
poems. The only real principle to guide the student here is this, that 
sooner or later, as Grote says, " the lesson must be learnt, hard and 
painful though it be, that no imaginable reach of critical acumen will 
of itself enable us to discriminate fancy from reality, in the absence of 
a tolerable stock of evidence." In other words, history is a science, 
which must be confined within the limits of observation. On the one 
hand, Dr. Schliemann, who is absolutely convinced that there is a 
fixed historical basis for the Iliad, is hard at work digging up what he 
asserts are the remains of that city over which scholars and archaeol- 
ogists are contending as warriors contended in the mythical past. As 
in much of the poem, the war is one of words, and ironical compli- 
ments and expressions not veiled in irony, are interchanged after a 
fashion that the Greek and Trojan heroes knew well. Besides these 
combatants there are other men who have distinctly shown that 
about the Trojan war there collected a number of Aryan myths, which 
appear elsewhere in other forms. Thus, Achilles, Paris, and Helen, 
are found in the Rig Veda as well as in the Iliad, and thus belong to 
a period preceding the separation of the Aryan nations. The whole 
story of the wrath of Achilles is told over again as well in the Nibe- 
lungenlied, and in its origin was a solar myth, a tale of the eternal con- 
flict between night and day, which formed the basis of the Indo-Euro- 
pean mythology. Yet even by the time when the Homeric poems were 
composed, these old myths had wholly lost their original significance 
for the poet ; they were mere bits of legend no more conveying a no- 
tion of their remote beginning than do Grimm's Household Stories 
unfold their history to the children that read them. They were wholly 
obscure tales which clustered about the story of the Trojan war, in possi- 
bly much the same way that in the middle ages the Carlovingian 
romance gathered floating traditions which were ascribed to Char- 
lemagne, who was represented, for instance, as a crusader, although 
the crusades only began long after his death. Here again the solar 
myth reappeared, and about a man whose life and deeds are well 
known to us. If our only data about Charlemagne were the romances 
of which he is the hero, it is evident that the process of reconstructing 



26 



THE HOMERIC QUESTION 



the historical basis would be a hopeless one, and in describing the cam- 
paigns of the Trojan war we are equally far afield. Yet, as the myths 

with which Charlemagne is in- 
crusted do not disprove his exist- 
ence, those that surround Achilles 
do not terrify the investigators of 
Troy. While it is very likely that 
the questions that the poems 
bring up will outweigh the an- 
swers that archaeology and lin- 
guistics can give, it is yet true that 
the rapidly growing supply of evi- 
dence is greatly widening our 
knowledge of the past. This ad- 
ditional information is gathered 
from the humblest and most varied 
sources ; stray epithets already 
petrified before Homer used them, 
^ bits of pottery and all the miscel- 
laneous collections of ornaments, 
arms and cooking utensils that 
have been dug up by energetic 
excavators, the lines of Homer 
and the relics of the ash heaps — 
combine to set before us a tolera- 
bly complete picture of a rude 
period just emerging from barbar- 
ism, and curiously compounded 
of squalor and splendor. Thus, 
the walls of the houses were 
adorned with sheets of metal, 
leather and carved ivory ; the in- 
ner woodwork was cut into some 
ornamental shape, and polished ; 
and while at an early period the 
floors of temples or of the richest 
buildings at least were inlaid with 
gold and silver, as was common 
in the East, most of the dwellings 
we may take to have had no floors 
at all, not even of wood, but to 
have left the bare earth uncov- 
ered. Moreover, on the ground 




THE ARCHAEOLOGICAL TESTIMONY. 



27 




GOLD RINGS FROM MYCENAE. 



of the hall where the wooers of Penelope used to gather, there lay 
all sorts of remnants of recently slaughtered beasts. The other parts 
were cooked in the same room, which had no special provision for the 
escape of the smoke, and " the sweet savor of the fat " was a most 
admired odor in the estimation of all. In front of this unsanitary 
but gorgeous house lay a dungheap ; such at least was the condition 
of things near the house of Odysseus, and in the court-yard of Priam's 
palace. 

What was gorgeous in this style of living came from the East ; and 
the dress, the deco- 
ration, the treat- 
ment of the hair and 
beard were all mod- 
ified by oriental 
fashions. The rich 
robes and drinking 
vessels came from 
Phoenician sources, 
as did the decora- 
tions of the arms 
and many of the 
ways of using them ; 
for example, the de- 
pendence laid on 
chariots. Not all, 
however, were thus 
armed ; the remote 
Locrians wore no 
helmets, and car- 
ried no shields or 
spears, but were 
equipped with bows 
and arrows. Only 
their leader Aias, 
the son of Oileus, 
was fully armed for 
close combat. From 

the East, too, came the use of perfumes and cosmetics, the necessity 
of which was greater, because the habit of bathing had not been 
acquired. The practice was reserved for extraordinary occasions, 
after fighting or returning from a long journey. Further traces of 
prehistoric savageness are to be seen in the account that is given of 
the sacrifices offered up by Achilles at the funeral of Patroclus, 




GOLD SEAL RING FROM MYCENVE. 



2% THE HOMERIC QUESTION. 

when he slaughtered twelve Trojan captives, four horses and two 
dogs. 

Yet amid all this crudity and confusion, abundant forerunners of 
the peculiar qualities that distinguish the Hellenic spirit at the time 
of its classical perfection are yet clearly marked. Not only, as we 
have said, do the rich and harmonious language, and the varied charms 
of the hexameter indicate this, but we notice already the aversion to 
exaggeration, and the sensitiveness to physical beauty which always 
characterized the Greeks. The immortal description of Helen is one 
familiar instance ; but it is not merely the sight of a beautiful woman 
that awakens this feeling: Achilles is filled with wonder at the aspect 
of Priam ; all the Greeks crowd about the dead Hector and express 
their admiration of his beauty. There are a few descriptions of mon- 
sters, such as Briareus with his hundred arms, the giants Otus and 
Ephialtes, who at the age of nine were nine cubits broad and nine 
fathoms high, Scylla with her twelve feet and six heads, each with 
three rows of teeth " set thick and close, full of black breath," but 
these misshapen beings are for the most part not only outlying 
remote creatures, but possibly merely Oriental inventions that had 
found their way into Greek folk-lore. At any rate, they did not belong 
to the customary objects, and their number is small in comparison 
with the normal creations of Greek fancy, whose aspects and qualities 
indicated the same grace and beauty that was in later centuries to 
form the inimitable glory of Greek sculpture. 

The Iliad and the Odyssey then have other qualities than those that 
fit them for a tilting-field for angry and derisive scholars, some of 
whom dig up forgotten facts with an eye solely to their value as mis- 
siles ; and the reader of the Iliad can follow the varying fortunes of the 
war without being distracted by doubts concerning the historical foun- 
dation of the incidents narrated, or their possible importance as solar 
myths. Whatever our conclusions may be — and a vast number invite 
our acceptance — the poet or poets who sang, and the people who 
listened to the story of the wrath of Achilles and of the wanderings of 
Ulysses, believed in the truth of the immortal poems. The wealth of 
legend was to them at least history in the bud, and they gave to the 
singers the same confidence that all early nations give to those who 
celebrate their past glories; and indeed in civilized time it is not those 
who praise us most whom we are accustomed to doubt first. 

The composition of these poems is the subject of an endless contro- 
versy ; whether they were composed piecemeal and afterwards strung 
together, small bits being sung at any one time, or whether the whole 
long poems were by any chance recited at any great festival, we may 
not know with certainty ; possibly the one custom followed the other. 



THE HOMERIC QUESTION UNANSWERED. 29 

What seems tolerably certain is that they were composed for recitation 
and not for reading. We are safe too in conjecturing that whatever its 
original form, the Iliad, for instance, grew into its present shape by 
enlargement, development and the bringing together of separate lays. 
The points of junction are not to be readily distinguished, and the 
broad swell of harmonious measure lifts the reader — and how much 
more readily a listener — over the incongruities and contradictions that 
have been discovered since the text has been put through the fine 
sieve of modern criticism. The inconsistencies are too many and too 
serious to be accounted for by any plea of natural oversight, and 
throughout it is the vividness of the separate scenes that command 
the highest admiration. Yet the separate strands are woven into 
a tolerably complete whole ; the general reader is carried on without a 
chance to notice the puzzling questions that can be answered only by 
denying the single composition of the poem. It is hard for us to sup- 
pose that the Iliad and the Odyssey were the sole epics, for we know 
how a striking success clearly indicates abundant competition, and it 
is easily to be believed that Homer surpassed the others and monopol- 
ized the praise, when we think of the prominence of Shakspere in 
comparison with the other Elizabethan dramatists. Men have little 
interest in those who take the second prize. 




POMPEIIAN BRACELET, 



CHAPTER II.— THE ILIAD. 

I. The Subject of the Poem — The Admiration felt for it — Its Fate at different Periods 
of Ancient and Modern History — Adaptations and Translations : Chapman, Pope 
Etc. II. — An Analysis of the Poem. III. — Some of the Qualities of the Heroes : 
their Unconventional Timidity ; their Relations to the Gods. IV.— The Greek 
Epic Treatment compared with that of other Races. V. — The Illustrative 
Extracts. 

I. 

WHATEVER may have been the origin of the Iliad and the Odys- 
sey, these two poems stand unrivaled in the world. The reputa- 
tion that they won in Greece has extended itself among all the races 
whose civilization rests remotely on this prehistoric past. At the very 
dawn these two poems stand, in their ancient glory unapproached, as 
if to justify those men who look back to the past as a golden age. 
What then are the qualities of these epics? The Iliad recounts some 
incidents of the siege of Troy, not the capture of the city, though that 
is clearly foreshadowed in the poem, but the story of the wrath of 
Achilles in the tenth and last year of the siege. So much may be 
said, without discussing the inconsistencies that are clearly manifest. 
This siege of Troy had been undertaken by the Greeks in order to 
bring back Helen, the wife of Menelaus, King of Sparta, who had 
been carried off by Paris, son of Priam, King of Troy. The love of 
Helen had been promised him by Aphrodite, when she, Here, the wife of 
Zeus, and Athene, had chosen him to decide which was the most beauti- 
ful of the three. Paris at that time was a shepherd, although a son of 
Priam ; at his birth the oracles had announced future perils that he 
would bring to his people ; his mother, Hecuba, had dreamed before 
his birth that she brought forth a flaming hand. In consequence 
he was exposed on Mount Ida ; but the oracles were not to be disap- 
pointed in that way, and when Aphrodite bribed him to assign the 
palm of perfect beauty to her — Here offered him future power; 
Athene, wisdom — by promising him the love of the most beautiful 
woman in the world, he readily made his decision in her favor. This 
most beautiful woman was Helen, and after being acknowledged by 
his father, he set sail for Greece, where he was received at the court 
of Menelaus, and here he verified the evil omens by running off with 
Helen. Priam received the guilty pair, and Greece joined its forces 



MAGIC SWORDS— THE GREEK HEROES. 



3 1 



to punish the foreigner's insult. For ten years preparations were 
made ; Menelaus appealed at once to his brother Agamemnon, King 
of Argos and Mycenae, and these two sons of Atreus incited their 
neighbors to seek revenge. While at Mycenae recent excavations 
have brought to light many proofs of a powerful civilization that 
belong to prehistoric times, we find in the Iliad a curious instance of 
the existence of an old and wide-spread legend in the scepter which 
Agamemnon carried, having inherited it from the king of the gods, 
for whom it had been 
made by Hephaistos. 
Zeus had given it to 
Hermes, Hermes to 
Pelops, the house to 
which Agamemnon be- 
longed. This scepter, 
with its divine origin, 
reminds us of the 
sword Durandal which 
Charlemagne gave to 
Roland ; of Arthur's 
Excalibur, which were 
similar magic insignia. 

Not all the Greek 
heroes were anxious to 
go to the wars, and their 
efforts to avoid the un- 
pleasant duty are recon- 
ciled with the simpli- 
city of the race. They 
tried to bribe Agamem- 
non to exempt them ; 
Odysseus feigned mad- 
ness, but his device was detected and he joined the army. There 
was no lack of heroes here, and their bravery seems incontestable 
when the reluctance of the others has been frankly admitted. 
Of these heroes was Achilles, the son of the sea-goddess, Thetis, 
by Peleus, a mortal, the son of vEacus. Around him are gathered 
all the admirable qualities of the ideals of the time when the 
poems were composed. He is strong and brave, beautiful in person, 
generous, proud, a true friend, and a relentless enemy. His fierceness 
in war is tempered by his love for his friends, and the mere raw thirst 
for the conflict is elevated by eloquence, for even in this remote 
antiquity the Greek possessed the ready tongue for which he was 




THE JUDGMENT OF PARIS. 



3 2 



THE ILIAD. 



afterwards famous. There is a pathetic side to Achilles as well, 
because his early death in the war has been previously announced, 
and he has chosen it in preference to a life of inglorious ease, which 
had been offered to him. This latent fate that awaits him lends dignity 
to the whole poem. 

The heroes, after ten years of preparation, met at Aulis, on the 
coast of Bceotia, to sail together to Troy. The first time that they 
put forth, they lost their way and were obliged to return, and 
before they could start again it was necessary that Agamemnon should 
placate Artemis, whom he had offended. This story, however, does 
not belong here, but to the discussion of the later tragedies. Once 
more the armament started ; and when it had reached Tenedos, 
Menelaus and Odysseus proceeded to Troy, and asked the Trojan 
king to return Helen and the treasures taken at the same time ; the 
Trojans declined, so the Greeks once more moved on. As has been 
said above, the poem opens in the tenth year of the siege. The Greeks 
had ravaged the country outside of the walls of Troy, but were power- 
less against its fortifications. They were encamped outside, with their 




BIRTH OF ACHILLES. 



galleys drawn up on the shore. There had been many fights between 
the two armies, when the Trojans sallied forth from behind the walls. 
Such, then, was the general condition of affairs, which was perfectly 
familiar to the Greeks when they heard the poem, as was also a much 
larger fund of legend bearing on the same subject. The whole story 
was in every one's mind, and in choosing a part, the author, whom 
for convenience we call Homer, in taking an episode of the war, was free 
to leave the whole great story untouched, and the part that he chose 
was that announced in the first line : 

" Sing, goddess, the wrath of Achilles, son of Peleus." 
The wrath of Achilles and the evil that it wrought on the Greeks 
when deprived of his services; the death of Patroclus, which was the 
result of his anger ; his return to the field, which the death of his 
young friend inspired, and the slaying of Hector: such is the whole 
story of the Iliad. This use of an episode of a greater tale distin- 
guishes the Iliad from every other epic poem of ancient or modern 



CONTRAST WITH OTHER EPICS— MYTHOLOGICAL ORIGIN 



33 



times. Even the Odyssey narrates a full, complete story. The ^Eneid 
is still more packed with a complex message, and the modern imita- 
tions have kept close to this model in at least this respect. The 
Sanskrit epic, the Mahabharata, is even a more marked instance of the 
same tendency. It was left to the Greeks alone to tell the simplest 
story in the most impressive way. Every thing else about the Iliad 
has been copied with greater or less success, but it has always been 
held necessary to tell a great story in a long poem, and artifice has 
taken the place of art. 

Fortunately the poem lives apart from its historic or mythological 
meaning. That Achilles may have been a solar hero doomed to a brief 
career, whose glory was adapted to some brave fight in a war with 




BOATS, FROM ARCHAIC VASES. 

the Asiatics, is a matter which no more perplexes the reader of the 
poem than does the success of the investigators who find in 
" Hamlet " a reappearance of the old legend of night and day, confuse 
our enjoyment of the play. Even in Homer's time the myth survived 
only as a tale ; its ancestry was wholly lost, and Homer thought of 
such remote meaning as little as Shakspere did. The two names 
belong together, for nowhere outside of Shakspere do we find such 
closeness of observation, grandeur of expression, and comprehension of 
human nature. Homer is the poet of an early age, to be sure, but of 
one already old in thought and experience. 

To what extent the lavish use of epithets is a survival of an old 
custom is uncertain. At any rate they are used with a freedom that 



34 THE ILIAD. 

is now lost ; they serve but to lend vividness to the object described. 
Now epithets are more frequently characteristic of the ingenuity of the 
man who uses them : they are not direct aids to our comprehension of 
the poem so much as illustrations of the poet's ingenuity. The differ- 
ence between the simple manner of Homer and the more sophisticated 
formalism of a time of advanced civilization enormously complicates 
the question of translating him, and to express his joyous dignity has 
been found as hard and as tempting a problem as the utterance of any 
of the emotions of human life. Just as every generation is confronted 
with the old novelty of the delight of life, the present charm and 
future fate of beauty and strength, which has to be sung anew for those 
who feel that only now does the world exist, so do the great classics 
stand as eternally tempting subjects for men who wish to convey their 
charm to readers. The work is continually done over again, for at the 
most but one or two generations are satisfied with any rendering. 
Every translation has but a temporary life ; it is best when it utters 
its meaning after the fashion which the time most approves, and when 
new forms appear it is succeeded by new attempts to say the same 
thing in the later language. Consequently, the student will learn about 
the various influences that have gone to the making of English litera- 
ture by comparing the various versions. 

At the time of the Renaissance the interest in Homer, which had 
slumbered during the middle ages, in the general darkness of the 
period, awoke to new life. After the fall of Rome, the study of Greek 
had ceased ; and with the revival of letters, scholars at once perceived 
that in literature at least all roads led to Greece. Petrarch's reverent 
admiration for the manuscript of Homer, no word of which he could 
read ; his eagerness to study the Greek language ; the delight with 
which he and Boccaccio read the Iliad in a bald Latin translation, fore- 
boded the future importance of the poem, even if it may be said that 
it also indicates the manner in which Greek was to be known through 
a Latin medium. Throughout the middle ages the fame of the Trojan 
war had survived in a maimed and crippled form, resting principally on 
the accounts of Dictys of Crete, and of Dares the Phrygian, which 
were alleged contemporary records of the siege by participants, trans- 
lated into bad Latin from now lost Greek originals. Dictys had 
fought, or asserted that he had fought, upon the Greek side ; Dares 
had been among the Trojans ; and since, in imitation of Rome, every 
country in modern Europe traced its lineage back to Troy, Dares 
was the favorite. It is in his arid record that Troilus first comes into 
prominence. Before that he is a mere name ; but in this account he 
is an important personage, as we see him in Chaucer's " Troilus 
and Creseide," and in Shakspere's " Troilus and Cressida." These 



TRANSLATIONS— EARLY FRENCH— CHAPMAN. 35 

later forms, however, belong more directly to Benoit de Sainte-More 
{Ro?nan de Troie), in which medieval and classical notions and tradi- 
tions are curiously jumbled together, as in the English imitations. A 
similar vitality of the spirit of the middle ages is to be seen in the 
French mystery, written about the middle of the fifteenth century, the 
My st ere de la Destruction de Troy e-la-Gr ant, by J. Millet, a still more 
curious maltreatment of the ancient story. This, although a century 
earlier than Shakspere's play, was a century later than Petrarch's 
re-discovery of Homer, and with the spread of the Renaissance there 
appeared great hunger for a true rendering of Homer. The first com- 
plete English translation of the Iliad was that of George Chapman, 
which began to appear in 1596 or 1598, and was finished some time 
between 1609 and 161 1. This had been preceded by a translation of 
ten books of the Iliad, from a metrical French version, by one Arthur 
Hall, in 1581. To judge from the single line quoted in Warton's 
" History of English Poetry," the field was left well open before Chap- 
man. This line, the first of the poem : 

" I thee beseech, O goddess milde, the hatefull hate to plaine," 
has left students willing to carry their researches no further. Chap- 
man's version shares with every one that has ever been made the mis- 
fortune of not being Homer, but it has some of the Homeric qualities 
in its impetuous and vivid force. It at least runs on and carries the 
reader with it, although too often Chapman introduces the conceits of 
his own time which are far removed from the simplicity of the great 
original. Abundant inaccuracies, too, reward the man who is searching 
for faults. Nor is this surprising: he tells us in the preface that he 
translated the last twelve books in fifteen weeks, which is at the rate 
of about eighty lines a day, at a time when the study of Greek in 
England was in its infancy — Groeyn was the first to teach it at Oxford 
in 1491 ; and Sir John Cheke at Cambridge about 1540 — and there 
were but few of the aids to the student that now abound. With all his 
obvious faults, however, his fervor has left him the favorite of the 
poets at least, and that is perhaps the most honorable immortality 
that the writer of verse can have. Dry den tells us that Waller could 
never read his translation without transport. Pope, on the other 
hand, although he gives Chapman credit for "a daring fiery spirit . . . 
which is something like what one might imagine Homer himself 
could have written before he arrived at years of discretion," yet 
says that "his expression is involved in fustian," and condemns his 
work as a "loose and rambling" paraphrase. Indeed Chapman's 
manifest errors were peculiarly obnoxious to the age of Pope. It was 
not until the revival of interest in the Elizabethan writers that 
appeared in the reaction against the spirit that animated Pope, that 



3 6 THE ILIAD. 

justice was done Chapman. The most glowing expression of this late- 
born enthusiasm is in Keats's beautiful sonnet " On First Looking into 
Chapman's Homer." Chapman imagined it to be " a pedantical and 
absurd affectation to turn his author word for word," and that a trans- 
lator " must adorn " the original " with words, and such a style and 
form of oration as are most apt for the language into which they are 
converted," and this theory led him far astray. A certain trace of it 
is at the bottom of every translator's soul, whether he seek the smooth 
turning of Homer which was Pope's effort ; or he, like Cowper, 
imitate the Miltonic inversions ; or like many more recent men try to 
be dignified by being slow. For one thing every translation is in 
some degree a failure, because our language has by mere use lost the 
original freshness of the Homeric Greek, and the necessary literalness 
conveys different connotations to our minds. The epithets are often 
worn threadbare ; their repetition, which originally was a natural 
thing, falls on ears accustomed to greater artifice, and every evidence 
of the difficulty is exposed to the charge of inaccuracy. After count- 
less attempts, to describe and estimate which would require a volume, 
the present generation is finding its completest satisfaction in literal 
prose translation. Even here, however, it is a remote and conventional 
prose that undertakes to give us the majesty of the Homeric verse ; 
it is, after all, a frank avowal that the task is impossible. Yet through 
all the muffling which time and the conditions of translation have 
imposed, Homer stands out immortally young and vivid. His story 
of ceaseless and numberless battles finds ever delighted readers who 
never weary ; who find the tale told with dignity and the loftiness 
of the grand style. Here is a brief abstract of the events. 



II. 

As we saw, the poem describes events in the tenth year of the siege 
of Troy. Chryses, a priest of Apollo, had entreated Agamemnon to 
return his daughter Chryseis, who had been captured, but his entreat- 
ies are of no avail ; he is turned away with contempt. In return for 
this insult Apollo sends a pestilence among the Greeks, and Achilles 
convokes an assembly to deliberate on the best way of appeasing the 
offended deity. Calchas, " most excellent far of augurs," declares 
that the favor of the god can be won again only by Agamemnon's sur- 
render of the damsel to her father. Agamemnon is enraged by this 
counsel, especially when Achilles urges him to follow it. The discus- 
sion grows hot, and only the advice of Pallas Athene, who suddenly 
appears before him, restrains Achilles from drawing his sword upon 



WRATH OF ACHILLES. 



37 



Agamemnon ; but he threatens, nevertheless, to leave the army and to 
take himself home to Phthia with his forces. Agamemnon consents 
to send back Chryseis with rich gifts to her father, but in her place he 
takes Briseis, a female slave who had become the property of Achilles 




seizure OF BRISEIS. {F?'07H a Vase Painting.') 



and to whom he was much attached. Achilles in his anger wanders 
by the shore of the sea, and asks his mother Thetis, the daughter of the 
sea-god Nereus, to contrive some revenge for him. She appears and 
promises to petition Zeus to let the Greeks suffer for their wrong- 
doing by bitter defeats, and she mourns the harsh fate that has 
granted her son so brief and perturbed a life. Meanwhile the messen- 
gers from Agamemnon, with Odysseus at their head, proceed to 
Chrysesand restore to him his daughter; they further prepare a sump- 
tuous sacrifice for the offended god and entreat his good offices : in this 
they are successful and Apollo relents. Twelve days later — the gods 
meanwhile being absent in Ethiopia, at the uttermost edge of the 



SS THE ILIAD. 

world — Thetis hastens to Olympus, and beseeches Zeus to grant 
vengeance to her son, and Zeus promises, with a nod at which all 
Olympus trembles, that he will let the Trojans be victorious until 
Achilles has received satisfaction. But Here, who had observed 
Thetis's presence, bitterly reproaches Zeus, who bids her hold her 
peace ; and all the gods are troubled. Hephaistos, however, restores 
good feeling. (Book I.) The next night Zeus sends a deceptive 
dream to Agamemnon which tempts him to renew the conflict by a 
false promise of victory. In consequence Agamemnon the next morn- 
ing summons the Achaians (the name applied then to the Greeks) to 
an assembly, and to test their opinions urges a return to their homes. 
The excited multitudes rush to their galleys, but Odysseus withstands 
them and induces them to go back to the assembly. Here he denounces 
the insolence of Thersites, to the delight of all who are present, and urges 
Agamemnon to enter the fight, before which a meal is taken and a sacri- 
fice is offered to Zeus. Then follows the catalogue of the ships, in 
which the galleys, the commanders and the tribes of both armies are 
enumerated. (Book II.) When the Greeks and Trojans are in battle 
array, Paris steps forth to open the fight, but gives ground before 
Menelaus. Stung by Hector's reproaches, he challenges Menelaus to 
single combat for the possession of Helen ; Menelaus accepts for his 
part, and asks that a sacrifice should be offered and that Priam should 
be called to the battlefield to pledge the oath. The aged king is 
looking down from the Skaian gate upon the battlefield with a num- 
ber of venerable companions, and while there they are joined by 
Helen, to whom the king points out and names the different Greek 
leaders. From this place he is summoned to the field, and an agree- 
ment is made that to the conqueror shall belong Helen and all her 
treasures. The duel begins and Menelaus is victorious, but Aphrodite 
conveys Paris to his palace, where Helen is, while Agamemnon 
announces Menelaus the winner and demands the observance of the 
compact. (Book III.) In the council of the gods, Zeus, at Here's 
request, determines the fall of Troy. Athene is sent down to instigate 
a treacherous renewal of hostilities, and she persuades the Trojan Pan- 
darus to shoot an arrow at Menelaus. After the truce is thus broken, 
Agamemnon goes about encouraging the Achaians to a renewal of the 
fray and the battle begins. (Book IV.) Diomed, who is endowed by 
Athene with resistless might, performs wonderful deeds; he plunges 
into the thickest hordes of the Trojans, slaying Pandarus and wound- 
ing ^Eneas, whom Aphrodite undertook to remove from the field, 
but she is herself wounded by Diomed and she returns to Olympus. 
Apollo carries ^Eneas, still pursued by Diomed, to his temple on the 
height of Pergamos. Ares now hastens to aid the Trojans, and before 



REPULSE OF THE GREEKS BEFORE TROY. 39 

him and Hector the Greeks begin to give ground. Athene and Here 
descend from Olympus to take part in the battle, and Diomed. 
encouraged, and supported by Athene, wounds even Ares. (BookV.) 
Hector goes into the city to ask his mother Hecuba to entreat of 
Athene aid for the Trojans; meanwhile Diomed and Glaucus meet, 
but recognize each other as guest-friends. While Hecuba prays 
to Athene for aid, Hector goes to Paris to urge him to come forth 
again to battle ; and then he makes his way to his own house, 
and then to the Skaian gate, where he meets and consoles his 
wife Andromache and commends his son Astyanax to the care 
of the gods. Having done this he returns with Paris to the 
battlefield. (Book VI.) When there, Hector challenges the bravest 
of the Greeks to single combat, and they draw lots to see which shall 
face the Trojan leader. The lot falls on AjaxTelamon, who joyfully 
begins the fight, which prolongs itself, with varying success, till night- 
fall, when the heralds separate the two combatants, who exchange 
gifts and depart to their respective camps. After the evening meal, 
Nestor advises that on the next day there be no fighting, that they 
burn the dead and build about the camp. At the same time in Troy 
Antenor proposes to return Helen, but Paris refuses. The next 
morning, after a truce is determined, both sides pay the last rites to 
their dead, and the Greeks build their barricade, at which Poseidon 
complains to Zeus. (Book VII.) At the beginning of the next day 
Zeus forbids all interference of the gods in the war. The conflict goes 
on, but remains undecided until noon, then fate determines the success 
of the Trojans, and the Greeks are driven back behind their intrench- 
ment. Here and Athene wish to go to their aid, but Zeus sends Iris 
with a message to prevent them. Hector and the Trojans pass the 
night by their watchfires before the Greek encampment. (Book 
VIII.) Agamemnon, despairing of success, speaks in the assembly of 
the leaders in favor of flight, but is opposed by Diomed as well as by 
Nestor, by whose advice it is determined to send ambassadors to con- 
ciliate Achilles. Those chosen are Odysseus, Ajax and Phoinix, the 
former teacher of Achilles ; yet their entreaties are vain ; Achilles 
remains obdurate and says that until Hector reaches his ships he shall 
not raise his hand. Phoinix remains with Achilles while the others 
take back the sad tidings. (Book IX.) The next night, Agamemnon 
and Menelaus, who are unable to sleep, arise and wake up the other 
Greek leaders to take counsel together in their distress. It is decided 
that Diomed and Odysseus shall reconnoiter within the Trojan line and 
find out their plans. On their way thither they meet a Trojan spy, 
Dolon, whom they slay, after learning all that he had to tell ; and then 
they proceed to the camp of the Thracian prince Rhesus, who had but 



4° THE ILIAD. 

newly come to the war. Him they kill with twelve of his companions, 
and they carry off his horses to the Greek camp, where they are 
warmly received. (Book X.) The next morning the fighting is 
renewed ; the Greeks advance victoriously until Agamemnon is 
wounded and withdraws. Hector sweeps all before him ; Diomed, 
Odysseus and other Greek leaders are wounded and forced back to 
the ships ; Achilles sends Patroclus to inquire of Nestor about the 
condition of the Greeks ; Nestor bemoans the state of affairs and asks 
Patroclus to persuade Achilles to take part in the fight, or at least to 
borrow the hero's armor and return to the field. (Book XI.) The 
Achaians are driven back by Hector and the Trojans within the 
encampment about their ships, at which point Hector makes the 
Trojan horsemen dismount and charge against the walls in five lines. 
Despite the bravest resistance, especially on the part of the two 
Ajaxes, Sarpedon tears down the breastwork, Hector breaks through 
the gate with a huge stone, and the Trojans rush in over the 
walls and through the breach. (Book XII.) While Zeus for 
a season withdraws his attention from the conflict, Poseidon, 
disguised as Kalchas, the augur, encourages the Greeks; the 
two Ajaxes drive back Poseidon from the gateway. Idomeneus and 
Meriones, Antilochos and Menelaus offer courageous resistance on the 
left of the line ; at last, Hector masses together the bravest of the 
Trojans and advances victoriously. (Book XIII.) Nestor steps out of 
his tent, disturbed by the noise and confusion, and meets the wounded 
leaders, Agamemnon, Diomed and Odysseus, who are about to watch 
the fray and to encourage the dejected Achaians. In order that 
Poseidon may lend them his aid, Here borrows from Aphrodite her 
magic girdle, and distracts Zeus from the observance of terrestrial 
things until he falls asleep. In the battle, a stone hurled by Ajax 
Telamon knocks down Hector, who is carried off insensible and the 
Trojans retreat. (Book XIV.) But Zeus awakens and sees what has 
happened : and in his wrath he commands Here to call Iris and 
Apollo to remove Poseidon from the battle, and to give new strength 
to Hector, who revives and drives back the Achaians over the 
intrenchments to the ships. There a terrible fight rages ; Ajax, leaping 
from deck to deck, repels the assaults of the Trojans with a great pike, 
and Hector throws firebrands into the ship of Protesilaos. (Book XV.) 
In this stress, Patroclus begs Achilles to lend him his armor to wear 
against the Trojans ; and Achilles gives his consent, on the condition 
that Patroclus shall return as soon as the Trojans are driven back from 
the ships. Then Achilles prepares his forces for the fight, dividing 
them into five bands, and encourages them for the battle. Patroclus 
drives back the Trojans from the burning ship of Ajax and kills 



42 THE ILIAD. 

Sarpedon, the son of Zeus, who gives the body to Sleep and Death to 
carry to his home in Lykia. Then Patroclus, against the commands 
of Achilles, presses on to the very walls of Troy, but is driven back 
by Apollo, who also disarms him, and Hector kills him. (Book XVI.) 
A long contest follows for the possession of the body of Patroklos, 
whose armor Hector takes and puts on himself, but at last the corpse 
is saved from the Trojans, who follow the stubborn retreat of the 
Greeks. (Book XVII.) Achilles receives from Antilochos the news 
of his friend's death, and gives way to such uncontrollable grief that 
his mother, Thetis, hastens to him, and tries to comfort him by the 
promise of new armor from Hephaistos. The fight for the body of 
Patroclus is resumed until the voice of Achilles drives back the Tro- 
jans in terror. Patroclus is then carried to the tent of Achilles, where 
the Achaians mourn for him during the whole night ; then the body 
is bathed and anointed and placed on a bier. At the request of 
Thetis, Hephaistos makes a new suit of armor for Achilles ; the shield of 
which is especially a masterpiece. Thetis hastens with the arms to her 
mourning son. (Book XVIII.) Achilles laments aloud for Patroklos, 
and his grief breaks forth anew at the sight of the new armor. Thetis 
sprinkles ambrosia on the corpse to preserve it from corruption. 
Achilles at once summons an assembly, to which all come joyfully. 
Achilles and Agamemnon become reconciled, the latter recognizing 
his error, and he offers anew to Achilles, Briseis and rich gifts. Achilles 
is anxious to begin the fight for revenge at once ; but, following the 
advice of Odysseus, they determine to refresh the men with food and 
drink and that chosen youths shall bring Briseis and the gifts to 
Achilles. This is done with solemnity. Briseis bursts into loud 
mourning for Patroclus, and Achilles refuses food and drink 
before he has revenged his friend. When he again laments with a 
loud outcry, Zeus bids Athene to strengthen him with nectar and 
ambrosia, the food of the gods. The Achaians march forth again to 
battle, Achilles leading in his rich armor. As he steps into his chariot, 
his horse Xanthos warns him that the day of his death is near. (Book 
XIX.) The armies are arrayed against each other, and Zeus calls a 
council of the gods to declare that they are now free to take part in 
the conflict. They consequently hasten to the battlefield : at their 
arrival the earth trembles so violently that there is terror in Hades. 
Here, Athene, Poseidon, Hephaistos and Hermes stand on the side of 
the Achaians ; Aphrodite, Apollo, Artemis and Ares aid the Trojans. 
The battle begins, and ^Eneas, as the first of the Trojans, goes forward 
to meet Achilles; he would have been killed, however, if Poseidon had 
not taken him away in order that the royal race of Troy should not 
be extinguished. Achilles makes great havoc among the Trojans. 



ACHILLES AND HECTOR. 



43 



(Book XX.) As the defeated Trojans are retreating in confusion 
from the battle, some to the city, and some plunging into the river 
Xanthos, Achilles pursues the last into the stream, where he performs 
more deeds of valor and takes captive twelve young men as an atone- 
ment for the slain Patroclus. The enraged Xanthos, together with 
Simoeis, the other river, rush upon Achilles with great violence, but 
Here sends Hephaistos against the streams ; he turns the banks and the 
swollen waters in their bed. The gods take part in the battle ; Athene 
wounds Ares and casts Aphrodite to the ground ; Artemis is injured 
by Here, and hastens 
lamenting to Zeus ; 
finally the gods return 
to Olympus. Achilles 
hastens to the city, 
the gates of which are 
thrown open to admit 
the fleeing Trojans ; 
Achilles can not pre- 
vent this, being led to 
one side by Apollo in 
the guise of Agenor. 

(Book XXI.) After the Trojans have fled into the city, Hector, in spite 
of the lamentations of his parents, remains outside before the Skaian 
gate, awaiting Achilles. When the Greek hero approaches, however, 
Hector flees thrice around the walls of Troy. Since the golden bal- 
ance that, held in the hand of Zeus, foretold Hector's death, Apollo 




ACHILLES AND HECTOR BEFORE THE SKAIAN GATE. 







m 








J ^e»S» /rV 1 ' : 4??3Er JCIS 


- 


_ >. j*rg, — , 


"Wvx^y^P^^^ 






Hf^ 




vHVc 



ACHILLES WITH HECTOR'S BODY DRAGGED AT THE CHARIOT. 

deserted him, and Athene lured him with wiles to his destruction. 
He stands to face Achilles, whose lance pierces his throat, and he falls. 
He has strength but to beg Achilles not to disgrace his corpse, and 
then Avhen that request is refused, he dies. The Greeks gather in 
amazement at the noble stature and beauty of Hector, while Achilles 
rejoices in his vengeance, and prepares insults to the corpse. He 
fastens the body by the feet to his chariot, and drags Hector, with his 
head in the dust, to the ships. His father and mother watch this 



44 



THE ILIAD. 



sad ride with despair, and Andromache, who had no suspicion of her 
husband's death, when she hears their outcry, hastens to the tower ; she 
sinks to the ground insensible, and utters the most heart-rending 
lamentations. (Book XXII.) The Achaians return to their camp ; 
Achilles and his hordes resume their mourning for Patroclus, driving 
three times about the corpse, and then partaking of the funeral feast. 
The next night the shade of Patroclus appears to Achilles in his sleep 

to ask for fitting funeral rites, and 
that the remains of both might 
rest together. The following day 
a great pyre is built, upon which 
the body is laid, and solemn sacri- 
fices are offered, including four 
horses and the twelve Trojan 
youths. When first the fire is set, 
it will not burn, but Achilles prays 
to the north and west winds, which 
fan the flames into a blaze. The 
next morning the bones are de- 
posited in an urn, which is placed 
in a mound of earth. Thereupon 
Achilles arranges games, for which 
he offers valuable prizes : there are 
chariot races, boxing, wrestling, 
foot-races, and exercises in throw- 
ing the spear, etc. (Book XXIII.) 
After the sports are over the 
Achaians betake themselves to 
their tents for supper and sleep, 
but the grief of Achilles allows him 
no rest. The next morning he 
drags the body of Hector around 
the mound of Patroclus, but 
Apollo has pity on him even in 
death, and covers him with his 
golden segis, that Achilles may 
not tear him when he drags him. 
Twelve days later the same deity in the council of the gods complains 
of this ill-treatment of the Trojan hero's body, and Zeus, in spite of the 
opposition, summons Thetis, who communicates to Achilles the wish 
of the gods that he give back the corpse for an indemnity. At the 
same time Zeus sends Iris to Priam; she finds him and his whole 
household plunged in grief ; she bids him go to Achilles himself and 




IRIS, MESSENGER OF THE GODS. 



INTERFERENCE OF THE GODS. 45 

arrange the ransom. Priam at once decides to do this, in spite of his 
wife's entreaties. He drives out of the house the inquisitive Trojans, 
and orders his sons to make his chariot ready. It is laden with costly 
gifts, and he, with Hecuba, prays to Zeus for a safe return, which is 
promised him by the appearance of an eagle on the right hand above 
the city. Thereupon he gets into his chariot and drives off, accom- 
panied by his herald. Hermes leads him to the tent of Achilles, where 
he woefully entreats for his son's body and a truce of eleven days. 
Achilles consents, receives him as a guest over night, and sends him back 
to Troy with his son's body the next morning. Kassandra is the first 
to descry him ; the people stream forth to meet him, and the body is 
carried into the palace, where Andromache, Hecuba and Helen in turn 
lament. On the tenth day occur the funeral rites. (Book XXIV.) 



III. 

Such is the brief and meager outline of the great poem, which suf- 
fers when reported in this fashion from the fact that the adventures 
and incidents lack all the covering which the poet's grace threw over 
them. It becomes clear, however, that the poem is practically a unit ; 
one story, that of the wrath of Achilles, is intended to be told from its 
beginning to the end, but whether by a single poet or by a number whose 
separate works were more or less harmoniously welded into one whole, 
is the great question ; the weight of evidence and the common opinion 
are inclining toward the latter view. Possibly what seems to modern 
readers most remote is the personal interference of the gods in the 
conflict, with their inevitable control of events. Yet, it must be 
remembered that their influence and backing were felt by both sides, and 
that the possession of their support was as legitimate an aid as human 
bravery or military skill, or any other advantage. The gods were but 
men and women only to be distinguished from human beings by their 
possession of immortality and a few fairy-like qualities, such as the power 
of becoming, and making others invisible. While the simplicity with 
which the gods are treated is a striking thing in the poem, we observe 
equal directness in the description of the heroes. Indeed, although 
the society that is pictured in the Iliad is an aristocratic one, in which 
princes and leaders hold a position like that of the principal characters 
in our opera, and the bulk of the armies is made up of an indis- 
tinguishable array of men like the chorus, — no private soldier coming 
into prominence except incidentally to swell the list of the hero's vic- 
tories, — yet, on the other hand, these heroes are not fantastic beings 
with imaginary qualities ; they are in fact personifications of the 



46 THE ILIAD. 

various conflicting tribes. We have already seen that Odysseus did 
his best to avoid going to the war, and once there the heroes were not 
without repugnance to the fray. Achilles and Hector both knew what 
fear was, — Achilles, when the river rose against him, in the twenty-first 
book, and " terribly around Achilles arose his tumultuous wave, and 
the stream smote violently against his shield, nor availed he to stand 
firm upon his feet. Then he grasped a tall fair-grown elm, and it fell 
uprooted and tore away all the bank, and reached over the fair river 
bed with its thick shoots, and stemmed the river himself, falling all 
within him : and Achilles, struggling out of the eddy, made haste to 
fly over the plain with his swift feet, for he was afraid." Hector, 
brave as he was (Book XXIV.), was seized with trembling " as he was 
aware of him, nor endured he to abide in his place, but left the gates 
behind him and fled in fear." Agamemnon, too, at the beginning of 
Book IX., in the assembly " stood up weeping like unto a fountain of 
dark water that from a beetling cliff poureth down its black stream ; 
even so with deep groaning he spake amid the Argives and said : ' My 
friends, leaders and captains of the Argives, Zeus, son of Kronos, hath 
bound me with might in grievous blindness of soul ; hard of heart is 
he, for that erewhile he promised and gave his pledge that not till I 
had laid waste well-walled Ilios should I depart ; but now hath planned 
a cruel wile, and biddeth me return in dishonor to Argos with the loss 
of many of my folk. Such meseemeth is the good pleasure of most 
mighty Zeus, that hath laid low the heads of many cities, yea and shall 
lay low ; for his is highest power. So come, even as I shall bid let us 
all obey; let us flee with our ships to our dear native land, for now we 
shall never take wide-wayed Troy.' ' Fear, then, was something that 
entered into the composition of a Homeric hero, although it has been 
carefully expunged from the heroes of later epics. Modern authors have 
been afraid to confess timidity, and in the effort to outdo Homer a great 
deal has been done in the way of accumulating heroic qualities. 
Indeed many of the facts chronicled in the Iliad and Odyssey show 
how truly caution was a characteristic of the men who have served 
the civilized world as models of heroes. Echepolos offered Agamem- 
non a fine mare to win his permission to stay at home. None of them 
have a real instinctive love of fighting such as we find in the great 
German poems. They all regarded war as a pitiable business, only to be 
endured for the sake of some ultimate benefit. In the second book of 
the Iliad, after the quarrel between Agamemnon and Achilles, it is 
only with great difficulty that the Achaians are again persuaded to 
fight. When Agamemnon proposes to abandon the siege, his fellow- 
warriors are delighted with the prospect of peace and of returning 
home, and are only prevented from abandoning every thing by the 



TIMIDITY OF THE HOMERIC HEROES. 47 

interposition of Athene. Then, too, when they get into battle, they 
experience unheroic terrors ; wailing would arise from the ranks of 
the Achaians. When the Trojans got among the ships, the Greeks 
cried because they fancied that they were doomed to destruction. Odys- 
seus, when, in Odyssey, XL, he is speaking of the men in the wooden 
horse, says that the other princes and counselors of the Danaans wiped 
away their tears, "and the limbs of each one trembled beneath him, 
but never once did I see thy son's [Neoptolemus, son of Achilles] fair 
face wax pale, nor did he wipe away the tears from his cheeks," and 
in fact he comported himself with admirable bravery. It is more 
likely, to be sure, that the poet drew his pictures of warfare in a time 
of peace, when the original martial ardor was modified by Asiatic 
luxury, when riper cultivation had weakened the early military 
enthusiasm. Yet, another .part of this unconventionality may pos- 
sibly be ascribed to the innate sensitiveness of even the most warlike 
Greeks. Their delicate natures were quick to perceive and dread 
peril that would be scorned by a ruder people. In the Mahabharata, 
the great Sanskrit epic, we come across bits here and there that show 
the same unconventional treatment that we find in Homer. Thus, 
Yudhishthira, in his fight with Drona, being sore pressed, " mounted a 
fleet horse and galloped out of sight ; for it is no shame for a Kahatriya 
[or member of the military caste] to fly away from a Brahman [or 
priest]." In general, however, these abnormal heroes are killing numer- 
ous elephants when not outdoing Bombastes Furioso. In the same 
poem we also find the continual interference of the gods, as in the 
Greek epic. In the Iliad (Book XVII.) Menelaus says : " When a man 
against the power of heaven is fain to fight with another whom God 
exalteth, then swiftly rolleth on him mighty woe. Therefore shall 
none of the Danaans be wroth with me though he behold me giving 
place to Hector, since he warreth with gods upon his side. But if I 
might somewhere find Ajax of the loud war-cry, and then both together 
would we go and be mindful of battle even were it against the power 
of heaven, if haply we might save his dead for Achilles, Peleus' son : 
that were best among these ills." 

IV. 

This is but one of the many times that the intervention of the gods 
is spoken of; and in the Mahabharata they are no less active in aiding 
their friends. Krishna appears as inevitably as if the poem were a 
tragedy, and curiously enough he frequently counsels unfair conduct 
to the heroes. Thus the three leading heroes on the losing side come 
to their end by foul means. One, Drona, is the victim of a lie which 



48 THE ILIAD. 

his human ally Yudhishthira refuses to tell. It seems that Krishna 
told Yudhishthira that if he told Drona that his son Aswatthaman was 
dead, that warrior would fall an easy victim. But Yudhishthira 
refused to compass his enemy's destruction in that way. Krishna, 
not to be daunted, has an elephant named Aswatthaman put to death, 
and another hero told Drona that Aswatthaman was dead. Drona felt 
sure that the statement was inaccurate, and in his wrath he slaugh- 
tered ten thousand cavalry and twenty thousand infantry — such is the 
Rabelaisian invention of the Sanskrit poet— and determined to ask 
Yudhishthira, who was known to be a perfectly honest man. Yud- 
hishthira meant to answer: " Aswatthaman is dead ; not indeed the 
man, but the elephant," but as soon as he had uttered the first part of 
the sentence Krishna and Arjuria sounded their war-shells, and Drona 
could not hear the explanatory words, and the god's prophecy was 
soon fulfilled. Kama met his end when he was trying to raise his 
chariot wheel that had stuck in the earth, and he imagined that 
according to the laws of fair fighting he was safe from attack, but 
Krishna's counsels prevailed ; and Duryodhana was mortally wounded 
by a foul blow with a mace, again at Krishna's instigation. These 
wiles may be compared with those which are to be found in the Iliad, 
when Hector's death is only brought about by a similar device, but 
while both belong to literature to be sure, the Sanskrit epic has the 
portentous clumsiness of a prehistoric, long vanished mammal, who 
soon perished among the unfittest. 

It may not be unfair to say that the same directness of vision 
that enabled Homer to perceive that even brave men knew what fear 
was, inspired his frank statement regarding lapses from truth. Pro- 
fessor Max Miiller, in his " India : What can It Teach Us? " makes it 
very clear that truthfulness is not, as some have maintained, the 
exclusive property of the Germanic civilization. Indeed, Yudhish- 
thira's reputation, as just cited, is something that few Greek heroes 
could match, for Achilles is the only leading one who does not disre- 
gard veracity. Pallas Athene is full of deceit, and Odysseus, her 
favorite, is interesting to her on account of his infinite capacity for 
misrepresenting facts. Odyssey, XIII., she thus addresses him : 
" Crafty must he be, and knavish, who would outdo thee in all manner 
of guile, even if it were a god encountered thee. Hardy man, subtle 
of wit, of guile insatiate, so thou wast not even in thine own country 
to cease from thy sleights and knavish words, which thou lovest from 
the bottom of thine heart ! But come, no more let us tell of these 
things, being both of us practiced in deceits, for that thou art of all 
men far the first in counsel and discourse, and I in the company of all 
the gods win renown for my wit and wile." 



SIMPLICITY OF HOMER ; THE MAHABHARATA AND OTHER EPICS. 49 

We see that the gods deceive one another as freely as do the men. 
The quick-wittedness of Odysseus made him the representative of one 
of the ideals of the Hellenic race, as Achilles, with his bravery, was of 
another; and the qualities, it may be fair to say, are correlative, for 
timidity begets deceit. They at least belong to an unconventional 
condition of mind, in which men were not supported by abstract prin- 
ciples, as is undoubtedly the case with their successors in later times, 
when, even if absolute truthfulness is rare, conventional honors are 
paid it. Yet the frankness of Homer in mentioning these opinions 
savors of neither cowardice nor dishonesty. Hypocrisy is peculiar 
to races which set great store by truth. Whatever may be said of the 
Greeks, they certainly can not be called hypocrites. Throughout this 
poem, as throughout their whole literature, their moderation and perfect 
sanity are conspicuous. Just as Homer saw that quick-wittedness was 
a striking quality of his fellow-countrymen, and described it as he saw 
it, he described the various incidents of the poem without misrepre- 
sentation. The Mahabharata is full of what to us appears gross 
exaggeration : one hero, for example, is wounded by so many arrows 
that they formed a couch that held him up as he lay on their points 
slowly dying. In the Persian epic, the Shah-Namah, Rustem, wrings 
the hand of an enemy with such force that he squeezes his nails off; 
but the Greek author never attempts to let the grandiose take the 
place of the grand, to ennoble his heroes by making them do the 
impossible. All the righting in the Mahabharata is full of grotesque 
absurdities ; men are forever slaying numberless elephants with the 
ease of an ogre in a fairy story ; these marvels give doubtless to those 
who hear them the same zeal that for thousands of years civilized men 
have felt in Homer's simpler art with its abhorrence of monstrosities. 
His work lives, while the oriental epics survive as curiosities, like the 
mammoths and clumsy animals of early geological periods. Nor is it 
in their externals alone that the poet's skill is displayed ; while the 
directness of the Greek mind is shown in the simple anthropomorphic 
treatment of the gods, who appear without supernatural terrors, so 
the story is told with a close relation to human life. The character 
of Achilles, his anger and its consequences, are put before us, not only 
with vividness, but with the truest art. We see the cause of his 
wrath, the futile efforts made to conciliate him, the miseries that fall 
on the Greek forces, and finally, when that original anger is expelled by 
the deeper indignation for the death of Patroklos, his return to the 
battle-field and final success. It is then one of the most striking 
things about the Iliad that the interest centers not in the events but 
in the character of one man. We are not told the story of the fall of 
Troy, it is not the case that historical incidents form the core of the 



5© THE ILIAD. 

poem, as is the case with other epics ; our whole attention is confined 
to the direct observation of the heart of one man. His bravery in 
war, with his fervent affection, are what fascinate us. A few extracts 
will make this clearer than many pages of description. Even through 
the medium of a translation Homer speaks to all men as no one who 
writes about him can do. 

V. 

In the first book of the Iliad, Calchas has told Agamemnon that 
the plague can only be averted by the restoration of Chryseis to her 
father, and Agamemnon has answered that his claims must be made 
good by rich indemnities. Then Achilles breaks out: 

" Ah me, thou clothed in shamelessness, thou of crafty mind, how shall 
any Achaian hearken to thy bidding with all his heart, be it to go a journey 
or to fight the foe amain ? Not by reason of the Trojan spearmen came I 
hither to fight, for they have not wronged me ; never did they harry mine 
oxen nor my horses, nor ever waste my harvest in deep-soiled Phthia, the nurse 
of men ; seeing there lieth between us long space of shadowy mountains 
and echoing sea ; but thee, thou shameless one, followed we hither, to make 
thee glad by earning recompense at the Trojans' hands for Menelaus and 
for thee, thou dog-face ! All this thou reckonest not nor takest thought 
thereof ; and now thou threatenest thyself to take my meed of honor 
wherefor I travailed much, and the sons of the Achaians gave it me. Never 
win I meed like unto thine, when the Achaians sack any populous citadel of 
Trojan men ; my hands bear the brunt of furious war, but when the appor- 
tioning cometh then is thy meed far ampler, and I betake me to the ships 
with some small thing, yet mine own, when I have fought to weariness. 
Now will I depart to Phthia, seeing it is far better to return home on my 
beaked ships ; nor am I minded here in dishonor to draw thee thy fill 
of riches and wealth." 

Then Agamemnon, king of men, made answer to him : " Yea, flee, if thy 
soul be set thereon. It is not I that beseech thee to tarry for my sake ; I 
have others by my side that shall do me honor, and above all Zeus, lord of 
counsel. Most hateful art thou to me of all kings, fosterlings of Zeus ; 
thou ever lovest strife and wars and fightings. Though thou be very 
strong, yet that I ween is a gift to thee of God. Go home with thy ships 
and company and lord it among thy Myrmidons ; I reck not aught of thee 
nor care I for thine indignation ; and this shall be my threat to thee : see- 
ing Phoebus Apollo bereaveth me of Chryseis, her with my ship and my com- 
pany will I send back ; and mine own self will I go to thy hut and take 
Briseis of the fair cheeks, even that thy meed of honor, that thou mayest 
well know how far greater I am than thou, and so shall another hereafter 
abhor to match his words with mine and rival me to my face." 

So said he, and grief came upon Peleus' son, and his heart within his 
shaggy breast was divided in counsel, whether to draw his keen blade from 
his thigh and set the company aside and so slay Atreides, or to assuage his 
anger and curb his soul. While yet he doubted thereof in heart and soul, 
and was drawing his great sword from his sheath, Athene came to him from 




HERA FARNESE. 
(Formerly in the Farnese Palace at Rome, now at Naples.} 



52 



THE ILIAD. 



heaven, sent forth of the white-armed goddess Hera, whose heart loved 
both alike and had care for them. She stood behind Peleus' son and caught 
him by his golden hair, to him only visible, and of the rest no man beheld 

her. Then Achilles mar- 
veled, and turned him 
about, and straightway 
knew Pallas Athene : and 
terribly shone her eyes. 
He spake to her winged 
words, and said : " Why 
now art thou come hither, 
thou daughter of aegis- 
bearing Zeus ? Is it to 
behold the insolence of 
Agamemnon, son of Atreus ? Yea, I will tell thee that I deem shall even 
be brought to pass : by his own haughtiness shall he soon lose his life." 
Then the bright-eyed goddess Athene spake to him again : " I came from 
heaven to stay thine anger, if perchance thou wilt hearken to me, being sent 




COINS WITH THE HEAD OF HERA. 




ATHENE WITH LION-SKIN. 



forth of the white-armed goddess Hera, that loveth you twain alike and 
careth for you. Goto, now, cease from strife, and let not thy hand draw 
the sword ; yet with words indeed revile him, even as it shall come to pass. 
For thus will I say to thee, and so it shall be fulfilled ; hereafter shall goodly 
gifts come to thee, yea, in threefold measure, by reason of this despite ; 
hold thou thine hand, and hearken to us." And Achilles fleet of foot made 
answer and said to her : " Goddess, needs must a man observe the saying 



QUARREL BETWEEN ACHILLES AND AGAMEMNON. 53 

of you twain, even though he be very wroth at heart ; for so is the better 
way. Whosoever obeyeth the gods, to him they gladly hearken." He said, 
and stayed his heavy hand on the silver hilt, and thrust the great sword 
back into the sheath, and was not disobedient to the saying of Athene ; and 
she forthwith was departed to Olympus, to the other gods in the palace of 
aegis-bearing Zeus. 

Then Peleus' son spake again with bitter words to Atreus' son, and in no 
wise ceased from anger : " Thou heavy with wine, thou with face of dog and 
heart of deer, never didst thou take courage to arm for battle among thy 
folk or to lay ambush with the princes of the Achaians ; that to thee were 
even as death. Far better booteth it, forsooth, to seize for thyself the meed 
of honor of every man through the wide host of the Achaians that speaketh 
contrary to thee. Folk-devouring king ! seeing thou rulest men of naught ; 
else were this despite, thou son of Atreus, thy last. But I will speak my 
word to thee, and swear a mighty oath therewith : verily by this staff that 
shall no more put forth leaf or twig, seeing it hath forever left its trunk 
among the hills, neither shall it grow green again, because the ax hath 
stripped it of leaves and bark ; and now the sons of the Achaians that exer- 
cise judgment bear it in their hands, even they that by Zeus' command 
watch over the traditions — so shall this be a mighty oath in thine eyes — 
verily shall longing for Achilles come hereafter upon the sons of the 
Achaians one and all ; and then wilt thou in no wise avail to save them, for 
all thy grief, when multitudes fall dying before manslaying Hector. Then 
shalt thou tear thy heart within thee for anger that thou didst in no wise 
honor the best of the Achaians." 

So said Peleides and dashed to earth the staff studded with golden nails, 
and himself sat down ; and over against him Atreides waxed furious. 

The next time that Achilles comes into prominence is in the ninth 
book, when the Greeks send to him an embassy to entreat his recon- 
ciliation and return. 




ACHILLES PLAYING THE LYRE. 



Hard by the rolling thunder of the sea 
They paced together, lifting many a prayer 
To King Poseidon that their suit might be 
Graced by the son of Peleus. So they fare 
To the chief's hut, and find him soothing there 



54 THE ILIAD. 

His mind with the shrill lyre, to songs he knew — 
That lyre with silver yoke, and carven fair, 
Which from Eetion's spoil he chose and drew — 
Soothing his mind he sang heroic deeds thereto. 

Over against him sat Patroclus dumb, 
He only, tarrying till the master cease. 
And lo ! the ambassadors both forward come, 
Odysseus first, and stood before his knees. 
And, lyre in hand, the chief, beholding these, 
Sprang to his feet, and with him rose his friend. 
Then swift Achilleus gave them words of peace : 
" O, princes, hail ! On some great quest ye wend, 
Ye to my heart still dear, whoever else offend." 

Thus said Achilleus, and with outstretched hand 
Leading them forward made his guests recline 
On benches strewn with purple, and command 
Gave to his friend, Mencetius' son divine : 
" Bring now with speed a larger bowl of wine 
And mix it stronger, and set cups to cheer 
Each : for to-night beneath this roof of mine 
Friends are come in, my nearest and most dear." 
Thus did he speak. Patroclus to his friend gave ear. 

Then in the blazing firelight his great board 
He planted, and thereon of hog, goat, sheep, 
All flourishing with fat, the chines he stored. 
These held Automedon, and wide and deep 
Achilleus sliced, then spitted the full heap ; 
And a great fire divine Patroclus lit. 
But when the crackling flame began to sleep, 
He raked the embers, on the stones each spit 
Laid, and the sacred salt then sprinkled, as is fit. 

So with much care he roasted all the meat, 

And on the table ranged it, and set bread 

In silver baskets for the chiefs to eat. 

Achilleus dealt out portions, head by head, 

Where he sat fronting, o'er the banquet spread, 

Divine Odysseus from the adverse wall ; 

Then bade Patroclus in the fire to shed 

The gods' due part, and he obeyed ; and all, 

With eager hand outstretched, upon the viands fall. 

When the desire was quenched of food and drink, 

Aias to Phoenix nodded, and divine 

Odysseus in his heart knew what to think, 

And brimmed his goblet, and held forth the wine, 

And spake : " Achilleus, hail, dear friend of mine ! 

Neither before in Agamemnon's hut, 

Nor here now, do we lack whereon to dine, 

Corn in abundance, and fat joints to cut ; 

Naught that beseems high banquet from our hand is shut. 

" But thoughts far other than of feast and song 
Now hold us ; for, divine one, in our sight 
Loom clouds of sorrow, and our fear is strong ; 



EFFORTS TO PLACATE ACHILLES. 55 

Nor know we if our ships at morning light 
Will stand or fall, except thou come with might. 
For Troy's brave host, and their allies from far, 
Near to our fleet and wall lie camped to-night, 
And in the plain their watchrires burning are, 
And even now they threaten the black ships to mar. 

Yea, on their right Kronion hath -revealed 

His sign, and Hector in his hope so yearns, 

Mad with the fire of Zeus, to sweep the field, 

That even now both men and gods he spurns, 

And oft aloud, such fury in him burns, 

Chides the divine Dawn that her feet are lame ; 

For he is set to break the high-built sterns 

Off from our ships, and wrap the wrecks in flame, 

And in the smoke hunt down the Achaians near the same. 



Nor is my heart not shaken lest with joy, 

By the decrees of heaven, his thought he reap, 

And we be fated to find here in Troy, 

Far from our native fields, an iron sleep. 

Up then, at last arise, in harness leap 

On the rough battle, and our cause befriend ! 

Else wilt thou feel an after anguish deep ; 

For wrong once done no medicine can mend. 

Think, if in time thou mayst our evil day forefend. 



Ah, my beloved ! Thy father Peleus said 

That day, from Phthia when he let thee part : 

My child, Athene and Queen Hera dread 

Will, if they will, give strength : rule thou thy heart. 

'Tis better to be gentle. Let no smart 

Stir thee to evil strife, that young and old 

May honor thee the more, where'er thou art.' 

Such were his words, which in thy breast to hold 

Thou dost forget. — Cease, turn, and bid thy wrath be cold. 



Not worthless are the gifts that shall be given, 
Which Agamemnon in the camp to thee 
Hath vowed to render — fireless tripods seven, 
Ten talents of pure gold, no slender fee, 
Caldrons a score, twelve steeds bred generously, 
Who in the swift race many a prize have won. 
Who earns such wealth as by those horses he, 
Needs not to lack broad fields beneath the sun, 
Needs not for dearth of gold be ever left undone. 

Moreover women will he send thee seven, 

Skilled in the study of all household good, 

Of Lesbian race, who to his choice were given 

W T hen that fair island was by thee subdued, 

And these of women first in beauty stood. 

All will he give, and with them shall be led 

Briseis, whom he reaved with insult rude. 

And by a great oath will he bind his head, 

That in the manner of men he hath not known her bed. 



5 6 THE ILIAD. 

" All this shall on the spot be made thine own ; 
And if hereafter the celestials will 
That Priam's mighty town be overthrown, 
Then shalt thou enter, and compile a hill 
Of brass and gold, thy heavy bark to fill, 
When we the Achaians shall our prey divide, 
And twenty Trojan women of good skill 
In matters of the house elect beside, 
Who, next to Argive Helen, chief in grace preside. 

" And if we sail to Argos, womb of earth, 
Thou shalt be married to his child, and be 
Peer to that tender sapling of his hearth, 
Orestes. In his house dwell daughters three, 
Virgins, Chrysothemis, Laodice, 
And Iphianassa. Whom thou list soe'er, 
Home shalt thou lead her without tax or fee; 
And he will add such gifts, exceeding rare, 
As no man for his child did ever yet prepare. 

" And well-built cities will he yield thee seven, 
Green Ira, Enope, and Cardamyl, 
Aipeia fair, and Pherae blest of heaven, 
Deep-lawned Antheia, wet with many a rill, 
Pedasus crowned with vineyards on the hill — 
All on the coast-line beyond Pylos bay. 
Men rich in flocks and herds that region fill, 
Who at thy feet, as at a god's, will lay 
Gifts, and beneath thy rule their fat revenues pay. 

" All these, to quench thy fire, will he bestow. 
But if within thy soul thou dost abhor 
Both Agamemnon and his gifts, yet so 
Have pity on the Achaians, wounded sore 
And broken in the camp, who will adore 
Thee like a god — their fame is in thy hand. 
Hector is now not far, but at thy door 
Raves loudly that no Danaan in the land, 
None that our ships brought hither, can before him stand. 

Answered the fleet Achilleus in his turn : 
" Versed in all craft, Laertes' son divine, 
No, three times no ! — the word is light to learn, 
Just as I mean it, to the very line 
Of fixed resolve that will not brook decline. 
Clear let it ring, that no man deem it well 
To murmur on, for any lies of mine : 
Him count I hateful as the doors of hell 
Who in his heart thinks other than his tongue doth tell. 

" Nay, hear me out ! I move not hand or knee, 
Neither for Agamemnon, Atreus' son, 
Nor all the Danaan kings. What boots it me 
Eternally for ever to go on 

Fighting with hostile men, where thanks are none ? 
For though a man bide fast in his own place, 
Or drink war to the dregs, our doom is one. 
The sluggard and the strong find equal grace ; 
All in the dust lie down, the valiant and the base. 



A CHILL E S' CO MP LA IN T. 



57 



Or weigh my griefs — am I so far preferred 

That I should alway set my life at stake ? 

See with each morsel how the mother-bird 

Flies to her callow nestlings in the brake, 

And with herself it fares ill for their sake ; 

So ever in the held have I gone through 

The toil of bloody days, and lain awake 

The long nights, brooding what was left to do, 

Still with the enemy warring for the wives of you. 




ACHILLES LOOKING AFTER THE DEPARTING BRISEIS. 
(From a Pomfieiian Wall Painting.') 

Twelve cities with my fleet, and twelve save one 

On dry land sieging have I sacked in Troy, 

Each with a hoard of spoil, and Atreus' son 

Sat by the ships, and here and there a toy 

Dealt from my gains, but did the rest enjoy. 

All other of the kings their guerdon reap 

Whole in the camp, but mine he doth destroy, 

Mine only of the Achaians, and doth keep 

Her that I love — now let him in soft dalliance sleep ! 



58 THE ILIAD. 

" Why do the men of Argos fight and fall ? 
Or to what end is this far-famed array? 
Hath not the bright-haired Helen caused it all ? 
Yes, no man ever loved his wife but they, 
None but the sons of Atreus ! Rather say 
All that are good and wise love well their own, 
As I loved her, albeit my sword's prey. 
Now am I robbed and cheated, I alone — 
Go, let him spare his pains : no offering shall atone. 

" Nay, with thyself, Odysseus, and the kings, 
This ravage of red fire I warn him quench. 
Without my help hath he done many things, 
Builded a wall, and dug with stakes a trench ; 
Yet bloody is the sword in Hector's clench 
Still. When I fought, no challenge to the plain 
Could from the hold of Troy this Hector wrench 
Save to the Western gates that front the main : 
There he abode my wrath, and scarce got home again, 

" Now with brave Hector will I fight no more. 
This but remaineth, that I vows fulfill 
To Zeus and all the gods, then leave the shore 
With barks well laden ; and, if so thou will, 
And if the care to see it is with thee still, 
Thou on broad Hellespont mayst view my fleet 
Ride early in the morning, rowed with skill ; 
And if Poseidon give us help, my feet 
On the third day will stand in Phthia's green retreat. 

" There I go back to many things I love ; 
Nor empty are my ships of brass and gold, 
And fair-zoned women over and above, 
And glittering steel, my wages that I hold. 
But he that gave it, now with outrage bold, 
Great Agamemnon, doth my guerdon spoil. 
Therefore I bid you all my words unfold, 
That, if again some Danaan he would foil, 
Then may that dire offense the Achaian host embroil, 

" His brows are shameless, and his soul to boot, 
Yet me the craven durst not front again, 
Though cloaked in impudence from face to foot. 
No counsel will I weave, no task ordain, 
With him who trapt me in so foul a train, 
Nor can his glozing tongue me twice ensnare. 
Away with him for ever ! Zeus hath ta'en 
His wits. I hate, and can in no wise bear, 
Sight of his gifts, nor him do I count worth a hair. 

" Not though he gave me twice ten fold, or more, 
His wealth, and made Orchomenus my bait, 
Or Thebes of Egypt, full of countless store, 
Thebes the wide hundred-gated, and each gate 
Lets out two hundred charioteers in state, 
Though treasures he might deal like dust or sand, 
Not even then could he my wrath abate, 
Till from my soul he purge the searing brand, 
And uttermost revenge uprender to my hand. 



ACHILLES SPURNS THE GIFTS OF THE ACHAIANS. 



59 



" And as for marriage, I will not come near 
A child of Agamemnon, Atreus' son. 
Though she be golden Aphrodite's peer 
In beauty, and Athene's art outrun, 
Not thus, nor ever, shall that rite be done. 
Nay, let him rather, as he list, provide 
Some Argive kingly enough to be his son ; 
For, if the gods me safely homeward guide, 
Peleus himself will find some maiden for my bride. 




APOLLO'S SHRINE. 
{After Lebegue, Recherches sur Delos.) 

" In Hellas there are maids of kingly line, 
And fit wives may be chosen from the same. 
Yea, there not seldom doth my soul incline 
To get me a good wife, some noble dame, 
And my sire's wealth enjoy. Life's worth may claim 
More than men say Troy held in days of old, 
That time of peace before the Achaians came, 
More than that stony barrier can enfold 
In the Apollonian shrine, on Pytho's rocky hold. 



For oxen and fat sheep abide their price, 

And lost may be redeemed in spoil again, 

And tripods may be had not once nor twice, 

And high-bred horses with their golden mane. 

But man's life, when it flies, no power can chain, 

And in the spoils of war 'tis nowhere found, 

Nor hunters in the field that prize obtain, 

When naked to the night that hems it round, 

Once from the teeth it slips, and is beyond the bound. 



60 THE ILIAD. 

" My mother, silver-footed Thetis, saith, 
Fate can I choose of twain — if here I fight, 
Dies my return, my glory knows not death ; 
But homeward if I sail, my glory quite 
Dies, but a long time shall I see the light, 
And from cold death live many days apart. 
And verily 'twere wise to share my flight, 
All ye the rest. Troy's town defies your art ; 
Zeus makes his arm their shield, and gives the people heart. 

" Now to the princes of the camp go ye, 
And tell my words : it is their right to hear : 
That with a better judgment they may see 
How from this doom both men and fleet to clear. 
This project of their mind will not cohere, 
Nor bend me, to the which they set their hand. 
But Phoenix shall remain till dawn appear, 
And in my ships go back to the dear land 
To-morrow, if he will — by his own choice I stand." 

He spake, and all in silence bowed the head, 
The stern rebuke so fiercely he rolled out ; 
Till with strong tears the old knight Phoenix said, 
While for the ships he trembled sore in doubt : 
" Achilleus, if indeed thou art about 
Homeward to pass, and, in thy wrath so hot, 
To let Troy burn our ships, and put to rout 
The Achaian host, and work I know not what, 
How then can I, dear child, remain where thou art not ? 

" That day, from Phthia when he let thee go, 
Not yet familiar with the ways of fight, 
Nor in the council seen where great men show, 
Me Peleus sent, to learn thee all things right, 
To put words in thy mouth, and deeds incite ; 
Nor will I leave thee till my time is told, 
Not though a god should undertake to-night 
To peel the years off, and my youth re-mold. 
As when I left sweet Hellas in the clays of old. 

" So for love's sake I made thee what thou art, 
Godlike Achilleus ; for with none but me 
At table ever wouldst thou play thy part, 
Till with choice bits I fed thee on my knee, 
And held wine to thy lips : my breast would be 
Oft dabbled with the wine thy weakness spilt. 
Thus have I toiled and suffered much for thee, 
Since never from my loins could race be built ; 
Thee for my child I took, my bulwark, if thou wilt 

" Tame then thy wrath : the very gods will turn, 
And, though a man sin far, their hearts incline 
To heed our vows, and the fat gifts we burn. 
For Prayers are daughters of great Zeus divine, 
Lame, wrinkled, haggard, and of sidelong eyen. 
These are in Ate's track still moving slow, 
But Ate hath strong hands to make men pine, 
She with firm tread the earth walks dealing woe, 
And they behind her toil, and cure it as they go. 



PHCENIX PLEADS WITH ACHILLES. 61 

" He who the daughters of great Zeus on high 
Shall reverence in his heart when they come near, 
Him they much help, and still regard his cry. 
But whoso drives them off and will not hear, 
Then they seek Zeus, and at his knees appear, 
That Ate mark him, and avenge the wrong. 
But thou, Achilleus, to their suit give ear, 
This honor that they ask deny not long, 
They who the stern hearts bend of others that are strong. 

" Save for set gifts, and other named beside 
By Atreus' son, not lightly to give o'er 
Thy wrath would it seem wise, and help provide 
To save the army, though their need were sore. 
Now doth he bring large gifts, and promise more, 
And of the chiefs whom thou dost love the best 
Hath sent with prayers the noblest to thy door. 
Spurn not their feet, nor yet deny their quest, 
Albeit, before, in anger thou didst well to rest. 

" Such were the men of old of whom we hear ; 
Their anger might be tamed with gifts, and taught. 
This I remember in an age not near ; 
And to you all, my friends, the tale is brought. 
Once the Curetes and yEtolians fought 
Round Calydon with deeds of high renown, 
And many were the deaths. ^Etolia sought 
To shield the lovely Calydonian town, 
And the Curetes strove with fire to raze it down. 

" For bright-throned Artemis plagued sore the land, 
She lacking, when the gods received their hire, 
Her own first-fruits ; for CEneus held his hand, 
Rash or not knowing ; but the sin was dire. 
So the divine Maid-archer stung with ire, 
Sent a wild white-fanged boar ; and the fell brute 
Found him a lair, and trod the fields to mire, 
Laid vineyards waste, and tore up by the root 
The tall trees of the land, with branch and flower and fruit. 

" Him Meleager, son of CEneus, slew, 
With hounds and huntsmen gathered to his aid 
From many cities ; for he scorned a few, 
This huge beast, mad with power, of naught afraid, 
And much men on the funeral-pyre he laid. 
But she, yet pouring the full plagues of sin, 
Between Curetis and ^Etolia made 
A great shout, and the unutterable din 
Of arms, for the boar's head, and for his bristly skin. 

" While Meleager, dear to Ares, fought, 
Still the Curetes badly fared in strife, 
And to their walls fell back, achieving naught. 
But when wrath darkened Meleager 's life, 
Wrath, which in hearts of even the wise is rife, 
He angry with Althaea, who him bare, 
Lay housed with Cleopatra, his dear wife, 
Child of Evenus' child, Marpessa fair, 
And Idas, flower of knights that on the earth then were. 





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PHCENIX RECOUNTS THE DEEDS OF MELEAGEK. 63 

" He for his lovely bride with shaft and bow 
Braved Phoebus ; and their child for ever kept 
The name Halcyone, a name of woe, 
Thereafter in the house ; so wildly wept, 
When lord Apollo her from Idas swept, 
That mother in the bitter halcyon strain — 
Housed with his wife an angry sloth he slept, 
Eating his mother's curse with fell disdain, 
Who by the gods had cursed him for her brethren slain. 

" She madly with both hands, and madlier yet, 
Kind Earth would beat, and falling with prone knee 
And eyes down, till with tears her breast was wet, 
Hades implore, and dire Persephone 
Against her child, that death for death might be. 
Soon the night-wandering Fury heard her cry, 
And with a heart like flint from hell came she. 
Rolled on the air a dreadful clang went by, 
War's thunder at the gates, and battered towers on high. 

" Anon the elders of ^Etolia send 
The noblest of their priesthood with much prayer, 
To win forth Meleager to defend 
Their walls, and promise a great gift. For where 
Soil on the plain lay richest and most fair 
In lovely Calydon, good land enow 
They proffered, an estate to be cut there, 
The one half vineyard, where he list and how, 
And the one half clear tilth that crumbles to the plough. 

" Also the old knight (Eneus prayed him sore, 
And oft returned and gave his ears no rest, 
Shaking the strong leaves of the chamber-door. 
Yea, though his mother and his sisters prest, 
He would not. And the friends whom he loved best 
Came and besought him, men of high renown, 
Nor was the heart yet tamed within his breast, 
Till the man's chamber was half beaten down, 
And the foe scaled the walls, and wasted the great town. 

" Then, last of all, about his neck to weep 
His dear wife hung, and in extreme dismay 
Cast on his mind the bitter things they reap 
Whose city to their foes is given a prey ; 
How in the victory grown men they slay, 
And sack the town with fire, and children hale, 
And some the deep-zoned women rend away. 
And his heart smote him as he heard the tale, 
And he sprang forth to go, and seized his shining mail. 

" Thus Meleager did ^Etolia save, 
Impelled by his own heart ; but in the end 
Received not at their hand the gift so brave, 
Yet did the work. But thou relent, dear friend, 
Rise, and the gifts go with thee ! To defend 
Our ships when flaming were less worth by far. 
Come, for thine honor shall man's fame transcend. 
But when, without gifts, thy feet mount the car, 
Less shalt thou gain in honor, and yet help the war." 



64 THE ILIAD. 

And answering, spake the swift Achilleus there : 
" O Phoenix, dear old man, I naught regard 
This honor (and yet Zeus hath given my share), 
Which holds me by the fleet, a life so hard, 
Till the breath fail me, and my knees be marred. 
Yet one word more, and it my last shall be : 
Vex not my soul with weepings, but discard 
Thy favor to the king. 'Tis not for thee, 
Whom I love, to love him, and turn away from me. 

" Stand ever at my side in love, in hate, 
And half mine honor, half my realm, is thine. 
And join not in their tidings, but here wait 
And sleep on a soft couch, till morning shine ; 
Then better can we shape our own design." 
So, to send out the others, with his head 
He to Patroclus bowed a silent sign 
In the hut quickly to strew Phoenix' bed. 
And Telamonian Aias then arose and said : 

" Son of Laertes, in the way we go 
End can I none find out : let us depart. 
Bad is our news, but we must let them know. 
Come, for Achilleus bears an iron heart, 
Nor can the love we lent him heal his smart. 
Yet payment still for child or brother slain 
Men take, and for a price keep down their heart, 
And bid the slayer in the land remain — 
But, for this girl, the gods let never thy wrath wane. 

" Now seven for one we yield, the best we find, 
And gifts abundant — thine own roof revere. 
Thy suppliants are we come, to bend thy mind, 
Of all Achaia thy most near and dear ! " 
But he : " Brave Aias, prince divine, give ear ! 
Right nobly dost thou speak : I love thee well. 
But when I ponder how in public here 
He used me like a villain, my reins swell 
With anger, and I hate him with the hate of hell. 

" Go now your ways, and render back my word : 
Ne'er of the bloody field will I think more, 
Till by the Myrmidons' own camp is heard 
The roll of Hector's march, and from my door 
I see the son of Priam driving sore 
Your host, and burning with red fire the fleet. 
But when the battle round my hut shall roar, 
And all about me there come smoke and heat, 
Hector, I think, though raging, will at last retreat." 

In the eighteenth book Thetis appears, after Patroclus has been 
slain, and asks : 

" Why weeps Achilleus ? What is now thy care ? 
Speak out, nor hide the cause : all things are done 
By Zeus, for which thou liftedst hands in prayer, 
That to their ships the Achaian host should run, 
And bear much woe, for want of thee, my son." 



ACHILLES BESOUGHT BY THETIS. 65 

And, groaning deep, the chief in answer said : 
' Mother, 'tis true, all this the god hath done : 
But what avails it, now my friend is dead, 
Patroclus, whom I loved e'en as my own dear head ? 

' Him have I lost : his arms doth Hector wear, 
Mine own proud harness, wonderful to see, 
Which the gods gave to Peleus, guerdon fair, 
That day, when with a man they bedded thee. 
Ah ! hadst thou with thy mates in the deep sea 
Lived on, and Peleus ta'en a mortal wife ! 
'Twas that great sorrow in thy heart might be 
For thy lost son : for never more in life 
Shalt thou receive me home, returning from the strife. 

' For life to me henceforth is sorry cheer, 

Nor care I with my kind to look on day, 

Save Hector first, down stricken by my spear, 

Lie prone in dust, and breathe his life away, 

And for the spoil of dead Patroclus pay." 

And Thetis spoke, weeping with tearful moan : 
' Short will thy life be, child, for this thy say ; 

For after Hector's death straight comes thine own." 

Whom answered fierce Achilleus in disdaining tone : 

' Straight let me die, since to my dying friend 
I lent no aid ; far from his own abode 
He fell, nor did mine arm the curse forefend. 
Now to mine home I never shall take road, 
Nor help from me hath to Patroclus flowed 
Nor to those mates who died 'neath Hector's hand, 
Here sit I by the vessels, a dead load, 
Myself the best of all the Achaian band 
In war : — for better some in council-hall upstand. 

' Perish foul strife from gods and mortals too, 
And anger, which doth e'en the wise provoke ; 
Which sweeter far than trickling honey-dew 
In a man's breast comes rising up like smoke. 
'Twas thus my wrath 'gainst Agamemnon woke. 
But now, though grieved, put we that matter by, 
Bowing our dear hearts to compulsion's yoke, 
I go to find out Hector : let me die 
When Zeus my end ordains, and the other gods on high ! 

Great Heracles, he could not 'scape the tomb, 

But fate and Hera's rancor made him tame : 

So I, if fate award me a like doom, 

Will lie down dead : but now I yearn for fame, 

And long to make some deep-zoned Dardan dame, 

Wiping with both her hands the tears that rill 

Down her fair cheeks, weep loud for grief and shame ; 

And let them know that I have long sat still. 

So keep me not from fight, though fond : for forth I will." 

And silver-footed Thetis spoke again : 

True are thy words, my darling: 'tis no wrong 

From thy much-suffering mates to ward off bane: 



66 THE ILIAD. 

But thy fair arms are kept Troy's host among, 
Brazen, bright-gleaming : Hector, champion strong, 
Flaunts them on his own shoulders : well I wot 
Death dogs him close, nor shall his pride be long. 
But thou the press of battle enter not, 
Till thou behold me here, returning to this spot : 

" For I return with earliest dawn of day, 

From lord Hephasstus other arms to bring." 

So saying, she wended from her son away, 

And, turning, spoke to her sea-following : 
" Now plunge you down where the deep waters spring, 

Hie to the palace of our reverend sire, 

And bear the tidings to the gray old king : 

I seek Olympus and the lord of fire, 

If he will make my son fresh arms at my desire." 

Another impressive scene is at the end of the nineteenth book, 
when the horses of Achilles announce his early death : 

Meantime the squires his chariot, nothing slack, 
Yoked, fastening strap and collar, as was meet : 
The fiery steeds they bitted, and drew back 
The flowing reins to the well-soldered seat : 
Automedon climbed the car with nimble feet, 
Grasping the glittering whip of golden wire : 
Behind in glorious panoply complete 
Mounted Achilleus, like the sun's red fire, 
And fiercely he cheered on the horses of his sire : 

" Xanthus and Balius ! far-renowned pair 
Born of Podarge ! let your busy brain 
Some other counsel ponder, how to bear 
Your master home, when war has had her drain, 
Nor leave him as ye left Patroclus slain." 
Whom from the harness that fleet horse bespoke, 
Xanthus, and drooped his head, while all his mane 
Trailed on the ground, escaping 'neath the yoke : 
And Hera in his breast a human voice awoke : 

" Ay, great Achilleus, we will save thee now ; 
Yet it is thy death-day near, nor ours the blame : 
No — 'tis high Heaven, and Fate that will not bow. 
For not that sluggish were our feet or lame 
Did the proud foe Patroclus' body shame. 
But Leto's son, that glorious potency, 
Slew him in fight, and won for Hector fame. 
For us, like swiftest Zephyr we can fly : 
But thine own fate is fixed, by God and man to die." 

Then ceased he, for the dumb Erinnyes stayed 
The fountain of his voice : and with sharp gall 
Swift-foot Achilleus wrathful answer made : 
" Xanthus, why bode me death ? thou hast no call. 
Right well I know that 'tis my fate to fall 
Here in this land, from sire and mother far ; 



68 THE ILIAD. 

Yet will I not forbear for great or small 

Till to Troy's host I give their fill of war." 

He said, and in the van, loud shouting,urged his car. 



Another memorable passage is to be found in the twenty-third book, 
where Patroclus visits Achilles in a dream : 



But when the lust of meat and drink was stayed, 
Each sought his several hut, and wooed repose. 
Only Pelides, on the margin laid 
Of the loud deep, groaned with heartrending throes, 
Pillowed in a smooth place, where gently upflows 
The landward wave, his comrades round about : 
There sleep came down, and loosed him from his woes, 
Soft mantling : for his limbs were wearied out, 
Giving swift Hector chase by Ilion's high redoubt. 



When lo ! the ghost of poor Patroclus came, 
Voice, eyes, height, raiment, all, most like to see, 
Stood o'er his head, and called him by his name : 
Sleep'st thou, Achilleus, nor rememberest me ? 
Living, thou lov'dst me ; dead, I fade from thee : 
Entomb me quick, that I may pass death's door : 
For the ghosts drive me from their company, 
Nor let me join them on the further shore : 
So in the waste wide courts I wander evermore. 



Reach me thy hand, I pray ; for ne'er again, 
The pile once lit, shalt thou behold thy mate : 
Never in life apart from our brave train 
Shall we take counsel : but the selfsame fate 
Enthralls me now that by my cradle sate. 
Thou too art doomed, Achilleus the divine, 
To fall and die by sacred Troia's gate. 
Yet one thing more, wilt thou thine ear incline ; 
Let not my bones in death lie separate from thine. 



We twain together in your house were bred, 
Since, me, poor child, Mencetius did convey 
Thither from Opus, for blood rashly shed, 
What time Amphidamas' son upon a day 
I slew unwitting, quarreling at our play. 
Welcome I had from Peleus, horseman brave, 
Who reared me up to be thy squire in fray. 
So let our bones be mingled in the grave, 
Hid in the golden urn thy goddess mother gave. 



Whom answering swift Achilleus thus addressed : 

Why com'st thou, loved one, thus thy will to show? 

All things shall be fulfilled at thy behest. 

But stand thou near, that each his arms may throw 

Round either's neck, and have his fill of woe." 

So saying, he clutched at him with hands outspread. 



HELEN DESCRIBES THE GREEK HEROES TO PRIAM. 69 

But caught not : shrieking went the soul below 
Like smoke : up leapt Achilleus, chill with dread, 
Smote his flat palms together, and words of pity said : 

" O heaven ! there doth abide among the dead 
Semblance and life, though thought is theirs no more : 
For all night long hath stood above my head 
The soul of poor Patroclus, wailing sore, 
And told its will : his very form it wore." 
So saying, in each he wakened sorrow's spring: 
Red morning broke as they their grief did pour 
Round the pale corpse. But Agamemnon king 
Sent men and mules abroad, good store of wood to bring. 

There are certain other passages that show with what vividness 
Homer saw and described the scenes of his immortal poem, and none 
is more worthy of note than the one that portrays Helen watching 
the Greek army from the Trojan wall : 

There Priam, Panthoiis, Lampus, and their train, 

Thymcetes, Clytius, Hyketaon sat, 

Ucalegon, Antenor, wise of brain, 

Hard by the gates, and council held thereat ; 

Loosed by old age from war, but in debate 

Most admirable, and with the voice endued 

Of clear cicalas that in summer heat 

Thrill with a silver tune the shady wood. 

Such sat the Trojan elders, each in thoughtful mood. 

These seeing Helen at the tower arrive, 
One to another winged words addressed : 
" Well may the Trojans and Achaians strive, 
And a long time bear sorrow and unrest, 
For such a woman, in her cause and quest, 
Who like immortal goddesses in face 
Appeareth ; yet 'twere even thus far best 
In ships to send her back to her own place, 
Lest along curse she leave to us and all our race." 

Then Priam called her : " Sit near me, dear child, 

And thy once husband, kindred, friends survey. 

Thee hold I guiltless, but the gods, less mild, 

Scourge me with war when I am old and gray. 

Now tell me this large warrior's name, I pray, 

This so majestic in his port and mien ; 

Others yet taller I behold to-day, 

But none till now so beautiful I ween ; 

So estimable and grave, so king-like, have I seen." 

Helen, divine of women, answering saith : 
" Father, thy gray hairs speak with awful power. 
O that for dear life I had chosen death, 
When with thy son I left my bridal bower, 
My child, and sweet companions ! but the hour 



70 THE ILIAD. 

Passed, and I wail forever ! Thou dost see 
Lord Agamemnon, Atreus' son, the flower 
Of kings, and a strong warrior. This is he 
That was my husband's brother, unless I dream, ah me ! 



Him then the old man much admired, and said : 

Blest son of Atreus, born with happy star, 

O, of how many Achaians art thou head ! 

Once that vine-country where the Phrygians are, 

Numberless men, with steeds and glancing car, 

By Otreus and high Mygdon ruled, I knew. 

Hard by Sangarius stream encamped for war, 

When came the Amazons, my help they drew : 

But than these dark-eyed warriors they were far more few. 



Seeing Odysseus then the old man said : 
Him too describe, dear child, at my behest, 
Less tall than Agamemnon by the head, 
But in the shoulders wider, and the breast. 
His arms upon the boon earth glittering rest, 
As mid the ranks he moveth to and fro. 
Him to a thick-fleeced ram I liken best, 
Passing amid a great flock white as snow." 
And Helen, child of Zeus, this answer did bestow 



Odysseus is the man, Laertes' son, 

Wise, and Ithaca's rough country bred, 

All arts to whom and deep designs are known." 

Thereto the wise Antenor answering said : 

Lady, a true word from thy lips hath fled. 

Here also hath divine Odysseus been. 

He came with Menelaus, warrior dread, 

To hear of thee ; they were my guests, I ween, 

Who the whole cast of both, and inmost mind, have seen. 



When in the Trojan council they appeared, 

Each standing, Menelaus overpassed 

His friend in stature upward from the beard. 

Of the more honourable and graver cast 

Odysseus seemed, both sitting. When at last 

For speech the arrows of keen thought they strung, 

Then Menelaus spoke with utterance fast, 

In brief sort, chary of words, but clear of tongue, 

Not wandering from the point, albeit in age more young. 



But from his seat when wise Odysseus sprang, 

Firming his eyes upon the ground he stood, 

Nor waved his scepter through the whole harangue, 

But clenched it, like a man sullen and rude, 

As 'twere a boor or one in angry mood. 

But when the volume of his voice he rolled 

In words like snow-flakes, winter's feathery brood, 

None could Odysseus rival, young or old ; 

All cared to hear him now far more than to behold.' 



PARTING OF HECTOR AND ANDROMACHE. 71 

Aias beholding third, the old man said : 
" Who is this other, far most tall and wide ? " 

Helen, divine of women, answering said : 
" Aias, the tower of war ; and on that side 

Stands, girt with captains, godlike in his pride 

Idomeneus of Crete. He oft of old 

Did in my husband's home, our guest, abide. 

But now all other Achaians I behold, 

All of them know right well, and can their names unfold. 

" Only two captains can I nowhere see, 
Knight Castor, Pollux of the iron glove, 
Own brethren, of one mother born with me. 
Came they not hither from the land we love ? 
Or, if they sailed the briny deeps above, 
Dare they not enter on the field with men, 
For taunts and insult, which my name doth move ? " 
She spake — but them kind earth, far from her ken, 
In Lacedasmon held, their dear land, even then. 

Meantime the heralds bear the holy things, 
Two lambs, and wine that maketh noble cheer, 
Stored in a goatskin ; and Idaeus brings 
The glittering bowl, and golden cups. He, near 
The old man standing, bade him mark and hear : 
" Son of Laomedon, with speed arise ! 
For now Troy's best desire thee to appear, 
And Argives brazen-mailed, before their eyes, 
To strike truce in the plain with prayer and sacrifice. 

In the sixth book is the famous parting scene between Hector and 
Andromache : 

When Hector heard that, to the Western gates, 

Meaning that way to pass forth to the plain, 

He sped back quickly through the long wide streets. 

And lo ! his dear wife ran to meet him fain, 

Child of Eetion, who held high reign 

Over Cilician men, in Thebes afar, 

'Neath woody Placos — she, and in her train 

A young nurse and a babe, as babies are, 

Hector's one child, their darling, like a lovely star. 

Him Hector called Scamandrius, but the rest 
Astyanax — thus honoring Hector's child ; 
For Hector was alone Troy's stay confest, 
And they "The City's King " his babe had styled. 
He then, beholding the sweet infant, smiled 
In silence : but Andromache there shed 
Thick tears beside him, and in anguish wild 
Clasped Hector by the hand, and spake, and said, 
" Dear one, thine own brave temper will yet lay thee dead. 

" Thou hast no pity for thy child or me, 

Ere long thy widow, when the Achaian men 
Shall like a flood pour round, and murder thee. 
I tell thee it were better for me then 



7 2 THE ILIAD. 

Dark earth to enter, if that day come when, 

Light of rny eyes, I lose thee. For no cheer, 

No comfort ever can I find again, 

But wailings in the night, and anguish drear, 

When for thine arms I feel, and thou art nowhere near. 



No parents have I now. Achilleus slew 

My father, when he came to raze and blot 

Cilician Thebe, and with doom o'erthrew 

My father's people, and much plunder got. 

Eetion he slew there, but stript him not : 

Awe w T as upon him, and his heart was bound. 

But with his gilded arms in that same spot 

He burned him, piling o'er his bones a mound ; 

And the hill-nymphs, Zeus' children, planted elms around. 



And brethren I had seven, within our hall ; 
In one day did their light go down and cease ; 
Swift-foot divine Achilleus slew them all, 
Mid their slow kine and sheep of silver fleece. 
As for my mother, who in days of peace 
'Neath woody Placos shared my father's sway, 
Her, with the spoil brought thence, did he release 
For countless ransom : but before her day 
By Artemis' keen arrows she was taken away. 



O, Hector, thou to me art mother dear, 
And father, brother, husband of my life. 
Have pity ! on the tower abide thou here : 
Leave not an orphan child, a widowed wife. 
Near the wild figs, where footing is most rife, 
Stand : for by that way came their bravest on 
Thrice, with the two Aiantes, wild in strife, 
Idomeneus, the Atridas, Tydeus' son, 
Whether by seer advised, or by their own heart won. 



And the large white-plumed Hector answered then : 

All this I knew ; 'twas mine own heart's appeal ; 

But scorn unutterable from Trojan men 

And long-robed Trojan women I fear to feel, 

If like a dastard from the fight I steal. 

No, for my soul I cannot. I have learned 

Still to be foremost for my country's weal, 

Nor even from the van my feet I turned ; 

Thus for my sire large fame, and for myself have earned. 



For the day comes, I know it, and the hour 

Comes, it will come, when sacred Troy shall fall, 

And Priam, and his people, and his power. 

Yet not that sorrow of the Trojans all 

Hereafter, when in vain my help they call, 

Nor even of Hecuba, nor Priam king, 

Nor of my brothers, whom, so many and tall, 

Their foes ill-minded to the dust shall bring, 

Slain with the sword, my breast so bitterly can wring — 



PARTING OF HECTOR AND ANDROMACHE. 73 

Not these, nor all griefs on my heart so weigh, 

As thine, when some one of the Achaian band 

Robs thee for ever of thy freedom's day, 

And bears thee weeping to an alien land. 

Lo, then in Argos shalt thou set thine hand 

To weave thy stern task at another's loom, 

Or at Messei's and Hyperia stand 

With pail or pitcher, and thy heart consume, 

Struggling reluctant much, yet conquered by strong doom. 



Then some one may behold thy tears, and say, 

See now the wife of Hector whom we knew 

First of war-captains in his country's day, 

Ere we the towers of Ilion overthrew.' 

So will he speak, and thou shalt wail anew 

For anguish, and sore need of one like me, 

Thy life to shield, thy slavery to undo. 

But let the mounded earth my covering be, 

Ere of thy cries I hear, and fierce hands laid on thee ! 



Then with his arms spread forth did Hector lean 

Toward his fair babe, who to the nurse's breast 

Clung with a cry, scared at his father's mien, 

And at the brazen helm, so grimly drest, 

Waving aloft the long white horsehair crest. 

Both parents laughed ; and Hector from his brow 

Laid the helm shining on the earth, then pressed 

Fondly, now dandled in his arms, and now 

Kissed his dear child, and spake to all the gods his vow: 



Zeus, and all gods, let this my child attain 

Praise in the host of Troia, even as I, 

In strength so good, and full of power to reign ; 

And when he comes from battle, let men cry 

He far excels his father,' and on high 

Spoils let him bear with foeman's gore defiled, 

And his dear mother's heart make glad thereby." 

He spake, and in his wife's arms laid the child, 

Who to her pure breast clasped him, as in tears she smiled. 



Her lovingly he touched, and pitying said : 

Dearest, be not too heavy and undone ; 

For no man against fate can send me dead 

To Hades, and his hour can no man shun, 

None bad or good, since earth was peopled — none. 

But now go home, and to thine own works see, 

Distaff and loom, and keep thy house at one. 

This business of the war men's care shall be, 

Who dwell here in the land, and most of all to me." 



n 



THE J LI AD. 



In the 
Achilles : 



last book is described the interview between Priam and 

But when unto Achilleus' hut they came 

Which Myrmidonian hands made for their king, 

Down cutting boughs of fir, and roofed the same 

With grassy thatch, from meadows gathering, 

And round it for that prince a mighty ring 

Of stakes they made : across the door there lay 

A single bar of fir : the enormous thing 

Tasked three to fix it, three to lift away, 

Of other men : the chief its weight alone could sway. 




VISIT OF PRIAM TO ACHILLES. 

Now Hermes oped it, and dismounting cried : 

Old man, a blessed god thou seest in me, 

E'en Hermes, sent from Zeus to be thy guide : 

Now I go back, nor shall Achilleus see 

My face : for cause of just reproach 'twould be 

For gods of mortals to display their care. 

But go thou in, and clasp Achilleus' knee, 

And beg him by his sire and mother fair 

And his one darling child, that thou may'st speed thy prayer. 

So saying, to high Olympus back did wend 
Hermes ; and Priam lighted to the ground, 
Leaving Idaeus there, who stayed to tend 
Horses and mules : the old man, onward bound, 



INTERVIEW BETWEEN PRIAM AND ACHILLES. 75 

Passed to where bode Achilleus ; him he found 

There sitting : but his mates were otherwhere : 

Automedon and Alcimus renowned, 

These only waited : from his evening fare 

The chief had newly ceased, and still the board was there. 



Unseen great Priam entered, and came nigh, 

And clasped his knees, and kissed that terrible hand 

By which his many sons had come to die. 

As one by Ate driven, in his own land 

Slaying a man, flies to a foreign strand, 

To some rich house, and all that see are dazed, 

So wondered he as Priam's face he scanned; 

Wondered the rest, and on each other gazed. 

While Priam at his knee voice of entreaty raised : 



" Think of thy sire, man of the godlike brow, 
Of years like mine, on age's threshold drear ! 
Perchance his neighbors round him even now 
Vex him, and none there is to ward off fear : 
Yet he, when of thy living he doth hear, 
Is glad at heart, and ever hopeth on 
Back from the wars to see his offspring dear : 
But I am all unhappy : many a son, 
Valiant and brave, had I, but Fate hath spared me none. 



Full fifty were there when the Achaians came : 

Nineteen, the offspring of one womb were they : 

Yea, seed I had of many a queenly dame. 

But the more part have bowed their knees in fray 

And him, my pride, Troy and the Trojan's stay, 

Thou slewest, for his country battling bold, 

Hector: for him I seek the ships to-day, 

To treat for ransom, charged with gifts untold. 

But thou, revere the gods, and pity one so old ! 



Think of thy sire ! I am forlorner yet, 

Enforced to dare what none hath dared but I, 

To kiss the hand that my son's blood made wet." 

He heard, and for his sire was fain to sigh : 

Gently he touched, and put the old man by. 

So they two thinking, he of Hector dead, 

Stretched at Achilleus' feet, wept bitterly, 

While the other mourned his sire, or in his stead 

Patroclus : and their groans through all the mansion spread. 



But when of tears the chief had his desire, 

And yearning from his heart and limbs had fled, 

He rose, and by the hand raised up the sire, 

Pitying the hoary beard and hoary head, 

And soothingly bespake him, and thus said : 

Poor man! woe's cup thou to the dregs dost drain. 

How dar'dst thou journey all uncomraded 

E'en to his face, whose ruthless hand hath slain 

Thy many sons and brave ? of iron is thy heart's grain. 



76 THE ILIAD. 

" Come, rise and seat thee : but, for this our grief, 
Let it have rest, though smarting : for the chill 
Of wintry sorrow yieldeth no relief : 
Since for sad mortals thus the blest ones will, 
To live in pain, while they are painless still. 
Two casks there stand on Zeus' high palace-stair, 
One laden with good gifts, and one with ill : 
To whomso Zeus ordains a mingled share, 
Now in due time with foul he meeteth, now with fair : 

" But whoso gets but ill, that wretch forlorn 
Red-ravening Hunger o'er the boon earth's face 
Hounds, and he wanders, gods' and mortals' scorn. 
So Peleus at his birth the gods did grace 
With honor : born to rule a noble race, 
He wived a goddess, though of mortal breed : 
Yet e'en in his full cup the bale had place, 
For in his house grew up no royal seed ; 
One child alone is his, to early death decreed. 

" Nor tend I his gray hairs, since far away 
In Troy I sit, a scourge to thee and thine. 
But thou of old wast highly blest, men say : 
Far as the sun o'er Lesbos' isle doth shine 
To Phrygia's plains and Helle's boundless brine, 
Thou bar'st the palm for sons and treasure-store. 
Now, since the curse hath come by will divine, 
Around thy town are fightings evermore : 
Yet cheer thee still, nor grieve so sadly and so sore. 

" For nought 'twill stead thee for thy son to cry, 
Nor wilt thou raise him, ere fresh ill thou dree." 
And godlike Priam made thereto reply : 

" Give me no seat, dread monarch, while with thee 
My Hector lies untombed ; but set him free, 
That I may see him, and take the gifts we bear ; 
Heaven give thee pleasure of them, and make thee see 
Thine home again, since thou hast heard my prayer, 
And given me to see light and breathe the genial air." 

To whom Achilleus, with dark-lowering brow : 
" Stir me no more, old man : myself design 
To loose thy son : one came from Zeus e'en now, 
My mother, offspring of the salt sea brine. 
Ay, Priam, I know thee well, some power divine 
Hath led thee hither on thy bold emprise : 
For no mere man, though of more strength than thine, 
Could pass unchallenged by the warders' eyes, 
Or lightly move the bar athwart our gate that lies. 

" So stir not more my heart in my distress, 
Lest thee, e'en thee, old man, I fail to spare, 
Though suppliant thou, and Zeus' high will 'transgress.' 
He spake : the old man trembled, and was ware. 
Then Peleus' son, like lion from his lair, 
Sprang straight from out the chamber, of his train 
Not unattended : for two squires were there, 
Automedon and Alcimus, the twain 
Whom most their chieftain prized, after Patroclus slain. 



DE SCRIP 1 ION OF BAT TLES. 



77 



The mules and horses loosed they from the yoke, 

And to the hut the old king's herald led 

And set him on a seat : then out they took 

The priceless recompense of Hector's head. 

Two mantles left they, round the corpse to spread, 

And a rich tunic, meet for his attire. 

Then bade he bondmaids wash and oil the dead, 

Apart, lest, looking on his son, the sire 

In choler should break forth, and rouse Achilleus' ire. 




ARMOR FROM PERGAMON. 

The fervor with which the battles are narrated may be gathered 
from this passage in the fourteenth book : 

Quickly he sought the Earth-shaker with the news, 
Stood by him, and spoke words with wings of wind: 
" Now, great Poseidon, thine occasion use; 
Now give the Danaans fame, while Zeus is blind ; 
For my strong spells have bound him, limbs and mind, 
By Hera's blandishments to sleep betrayed." 
Then went he to the tribes of human kind, 
While he, spurred on the Danaan host to aid, 
Leapt forth into their van, and loud monition made : 



What, Argives, shall we thus the day forego ? 
Shall Hector burn our ships and glory gain ? 
In sooth, he says, yea, boasts it shall be so, 
Seeing Achilleus doth from war refrain : 
Yet scant that loss, if we who here remain 
Be stirred to aid each other in the field. 
Take we our largest shields of closest grain, 
Our brows with beaming helmets safely steeled, 
And in our valiant hands our longest javelins wield. 



78 



THE ILIAD. 



Forward ! myself will lead : nor, spite his vaunt, 

Will Hector dare abide when we rush on. 

And let the brave who finds his buckler scant 

Give it some weakling, and a larger don." 

Such words were his : and they obeyed each one : 

And the great chieftains, though their wounds did gall, 

Odysseus, Diomede, and Atreus' son, 

Passed round the ranks and changed their weapons all 

The large the stronger took, the weaker sort the small. 





SWORDS FROM MYCENAE. 



But when their flesh in gleaming brass was clad, 
They moved to go : Poseidon led the way; 
In his huge hand a long keen sword he had, 
Like lightning: yet therewith he might not slay 
The ranks of foemen, but their hearts dismay. 
Hector his Trojans ranged on the adverse side. 
O, long and dreadful was the battle-fray 
Wagecl by Poseidon there and Hector tried, 
While Trojans he with help and he Achaians plied. 

The sea was dashed up to the huts and fleet 

Of Argos ; and they met with a loud yell. 

Not sea-waves on the coast so loudly beat 

As 'neath the north- wind they from ocean swell, 

Nor tire enkindled in a mountain dell 

In leaping on the wood so fierce doth roar, 

Nor 'mid tall-foliaged oaks the winds so fell 

Howls, of all things most terrible in its blore, 

As Troy and Argos yelled when each on each they bore. 

At Aias first his lance brave Hector threw 

As front to front he faced him, nor yet erred, 

But smote him on the breast, where baldricks two 

Ran, one the shield and one the sword to gird ; 

These checked the blow. Brave Hector's wrath was stirred 

At such miscarriage : back he did retreat, 

Shunning his fate : Aias ,by anger spurred, 

Caught a great stone of those that at their feet 

Lay many, as they fought, props of the anchored fleet. 



He whirled it like a quoit and spun it round ; 
O'er the shield's rim, on to the neck it passed. 



DESCRIPTION OF BATTLES. 79 

As some tall oak falls heavily to the ground 

Smit by Zeus' thunder, and a sulphurous blast 

Swift follows : whoso sees it is aghast, 

For Zeus' sore thunderstrokes not soon are healed : 

So in the dust fell Hector, tall and vast : 

He dropped his lance, and on him fell his shield 

And helmet, and all o'er his brazen armor pealed. 

Hoping a prize, the foe with yells rushed on, 

And showered a hail of darts, athirst for blood : 

But stab or pierce they could not, ne'er a one, 

For round him in a ring Polydamas stood 

With great ^Eneas and Agenor good, 

Brave Glaucus, and Sarpedon, Lycia's head ; 

And of the rest each succored as he could, 

And his broad shield before his chieftain spread : 

And him, reared on their hands, his mates from battle sped. 

So his steeds reached he, which behind the roar 

Of battle stood, with car and charioteer : 

Quickly they bare him homeward, groaning sore. 

But soon as they came nigh that river clear, 

Swift-eddying Xanthus, Zeus' own offspring dear, 

They take him out and water on him pour : 

He fetched a breath, and did his eyes uprear, 

And sat couched up, disgorging the black gore : 

Then back to earth he fell, and gloom his eyes came o'er. 

Whom when the Argives saw from the field retire, 
More fierce they rushed, and minded them of fight ; 
Far foremost he who called Oi'leus sire, 
Charging with pointed lance, did Satnius smite, 
Whom erst on Satnio's banks a Naiad bright 
Bore to his father Enops, shepherd swain ; 
Him then Oi'leus' son, spear-famous wight, 
Pierced in the flank : he fell, and o'er him slain 
Trojans and Danaans there a desperate strife maintain. 

Then to avenge the dead Polydamas came, 
Panthous' brave son, who Prothoenor hit 
On the right shoulder : the dart held its aim 
On through the back : o'erthrown, the dust he bit. 
And the slayer boasted loud, for all to wit : 
Not vainly from the stalwart arm, I ween, 
Of Panthous' mighty son that lance did flit; 
Some Argive hath it, who thereon will lean, 
And travel by its aid down to the house unseen." 

He spoke : the Argives listened, smit with pain, 

But most of all stout Aias' heart was rent, 

Telamon's son ; for next him fell the slain. 

At the retiring foe a lance he sent, 

Who, springing quick aside, did death prevent : 

So 'twas Antenor's son received the spear, 

Archelochus : for Zeus his ruin meant : 

It smote him where the head and neck come near, 

Just at the neck's last joint, and cut the tendons sheer. 



80 THE ILIAD. 

Head, mouth, and nostrils sooner touched the ground, 
Than shins and knees, he falling. As he lay, 
Aias outspoke to Panthous' son renowned : 
" Think now, Polydamas, and truly say, 
Will not this death for Prothoenor's pay ? 
No mean man seems he, nor of lineage base, 
But brother to Antenor, good in fray, 
Or son : for likest that his form and face." 
So spoke he, knowing well: on Troy came grief apace. 

Then Acamas, stalking his dead brother round, 
Slew Promachus, who sought to drag the slain ; 
And o'er him Acamas vaunted with loud sound : 
" Not ours alone the labor and the bane, 
Proud Argives, but yourselves sometimes are ta'en. 
See how my spear hath given up to decay 
This Theban, lest my brother's death remain 
Long unrevenged : henceforth let each man pray 
A brother may survive, to wipe his shame away." 

He spoke : the Argives listened smit with pain, 
But most of all Peneleos' heart was rent ; 
Raging, on Acamas he rushed amain, 
Who swerved aside, nor stayed the monarch's hent : 
So on Ilioneus his good steel he bent, 
The child of Phorbas, lord of cattle fair, 
Who of all Trojans born did most content 
Hermes, who gave him wealth to spend and spare : 
To whom his consort bore Ilioneus, his sole heir. 

Beneath his brow Peneleos thrust the spear 
At the eye's root, and thence the pupil tore ; 
Onward through eye and nape the point went sheer : 
He sank to earth, his hands spread out before : 
Forth flashed Peneleos his keen sword, and shore 
Right through the neck, tumbling to earth the head 
And helmet both : still the pierced eyeball bore 
The javelin fixed : he, like a poppy red, 
Lifted the gory prize, and to the Trojans said : 

" Trojans, my heralds be, and bear my tale 
To proud Ilioneus' sire and mother dear : 
Go, bid them in their palace weep and wail ; 
For ne'er shall Promachus' beloved fere 
Welcome her husband home with smiling cheer, 
When once again we Argives cross the sea." 
Thus boastfully he spoke : a ghastly fear 
Took all their hearts, and each one eagerly 
Looked round, by what way best the steep of doom to flee. 

Now tell me, Muses, dwellers on heaven's height, 
Who of the Achaians foremost won and wore 
The red spoils, when Poseidon turned the fight. 
First Telamonian Aias shed the gore 
Of Hyrtius, who command o'er Mysians bore : 
Likewise Antilochus stout Mermerus slew, 
And Phalkes : Meriones their harness tore 
From Morys and Hippotion : Teucer true 
Sent Prothoon down to death and Periphetes too. 



DESCRIPTION OF BATTLES. 



81 



But valiant Menelaus in the flank 

Pierced Hyperenor, shepherd of his train ; 

The steel raged onward, and his entrails drank, 

And through the ghastly wound the soul in pain 

Went speedily, and on his eyes amain 

The death-cloud fell : but Aias most did smite, 

Oi'leus' swift-foot son : for o'er the plain 

None else could follow with a step so light, 

When warrior hearts grow faint, and Zeus impels to flight. 




BATTLE SCENE. 



CHAPTER III.— THE ODYSSEY. 

I. — The Difference between the Iliad and the Odyssey, and the Resultant Discussion — 
An Analysis of the Latter Poem. II. — Some of the Qualities of this Poem — Its 
Coherence and Simplicity — The Naivete of the Heroes — The Explanation of the 
Poem as a Solar Myth. III. — Illustrative Extracts. 



I. 

THE Odyssey is very unlike the Iliad, and the difference between 
them has been expressed in very many ways : that the Iliad was 
written for men, and the Odyssey for women, and, as Aristotle well put 
it, that the Iliad is pathetic and simple, the Odyssey ethical and com- 
plicated. And while the two poems are, according to immemorial 
custom, ascribed to the one Homer, there were already in antiquity 
some critics who conjectured that the Odyssey was the work of 
another author. When the Plomeric discussion began, about a 
century ago, it was about the Iliad that the fight was fought ; it was 
generally conceded that, however opinions might vary with regard to 
that poem, the Odyssey was secure from any assault, that the most 
captious would be unable to detect incoherences and confusion in it. 
Of late years, it is to be noticed, scientific examination has discovered 
weak spots in its defenses, and openings for assault. Indeed, we are 
justified in saying that the battle has begun and promises to be a hot 
one. Yet even when the struggle is over and half the world finds 
inconsistencies and errors and repetitions where now there appears an 
unbroken front, the poem will remain, as the Iliad remains, a rich 
source of delight for many generations of readers. 

The obvious differences between the Iliad, with its incessant record 
of personal conflicts, and the Odyssey, which narrates the adventures 
of Odysseus in his return to his home from the Trojan war, have been 
called only such dissimilarities as might naturally exist between the 
work of a man's youth and that of his riper years, but, as we shall see 
later, this explanation fails to cover all the ground on which sappers 
and miners are at work against the notion of Homeric unity. We are, 
perhaps, only safe in placing the Iliad and Odyssey together as prod- 
ucts of what may be called an epic period, and even of the Greeks it 
is true that the flowering season of any one literary form is of brief 
duration. At any rate, both these poems belong to the cycle of the 






TELEMACHUS AIDED BY ATHENE. 



83 



Trojan war. Ten years had been spent in preparations for that 
struggle ; the siege lasted ten years, and Odysseus spent ten years 
making his way back to his home. His adventures on the journey 
form the subject of the poem. 

When it begins, Odysseus had for nine years after the fall of Troy 
been exposed to the wrath of Poseidon, but now at last the gods 
decide that his wanderings shall cease. The nymph Calypso is mean- 
while detaining the hero against his will in the remote western island 
Ogygia, and thither Hermes is sent to demand his release. Athene 
also hastens to Ithaca to carry 
comfort to Telemachus, the son 
of Odysseus, and to encourage 
him to take certain measures in 
preparation for his father's return. 
She enters the house of Odys- 
seus in the guise of Mentes, an 
old friend, and is warmly welcom- 
ed by Telemachus, who laments 
his sorrows in that the sons of 
all the neighboring lords are con- 
tinually reveling in his house, 
devouring his substance, in order 
to compel his mother to choose 
one of them for her husband, 
knowing well that the one whom 
she selects will thereby become 
the king of Ithaca. Athene coun- 
sels him to ask the people for aid 
against the shameless suitors, 
and then to set forth upon a 
journey in order to get news of 
his long missing father. Telem- 

1 • 1 ODYSSEUS. 

achus is at once encouraged 

to boldness; he blames his mother, who is averse to listening to 
the songs of Phemius, the old bard, about the sad return of the Achai- 
ans, and speaks with severity to the suitors, whose suspicions are 
aroused by the visit and sudden departure of Mentes. When even- 
ing comes the suitors depart, and Telemachus is conducted to his 
sleeping-room by his old nurse, Eurycleia. (Book I.) The next 
morning the people are summoned to an assembly, when Telemachus 
brings bitter accusations against the suitors and asks for the assistance 
of the people. The suitors, however, throw the blame on Penelope, 
who has for years been putting them off on the pretext that 




8 4 



THE ODYSSEY. 



before marrying a second husband she must finish a shroud for 
the old father of Odysseus, but as much as she weaves in a 
day she unravels at night, and thus postpones her choice ; but if she 
will select one of the wooers, Telemachus will have peace. While the 
discussion is going on, in answer to a prayer uttered by Telemachus, 
two eagles appear rending each other, a sight that is interpreted by 
one of those present as a token of the overthrow of the suitors, 
who reject this interpretation with some warmth. After more dis- 
cussion, the assembly breaks up, and Telemachus, going to the sea- 




shore, prays to Athene, who appears in the form of Mentor and 
encourages him to undertake his journey, promising to secure him a 
ship and companions. Telemachus returns to his dwelling, where tfie 
suitors treat him with insult which he meets with dignity, and then 
he proceeds to prepare for his journey. He makes Eurycleia swear 
that she will not mention his plan to his mother before twelve days, 
and then he returns to the suitors. After sunset he sets off with 
Athene, who still appears as Mentor, and with the oarsmen to visit 
old Nestor at Pylos. His departure is not observed by the suitors, for 
Athene made them dull and drowsy. (Book II.) Early the next morn- 
ing they land at Pylos, being warmly welcomed by the men who are 
gathered on the shore to offer a sacrifice, and participate in the 
rites. Then Telemachus, being encouraged by Athene, tells Nestor 
who he is, and that he has come to get information about his absent 
father. But Nestor in a long speech answers that he can give him no 



86 THE ODYSSEY. 

news of Odysseus, for when the Achaians were making ready to 
return, dissensions broke out, and he started with a party to which 
Odysseus did not belong. After some more talk, in which they 
lament the terrible murder of Agamemnon by ^Egisthus and Clytem- 
nestra, and speak of the vengeance wrought by Orestes, his son, Nestor 
advises Telemachus to consult Menelaus in Sparta, who had for 
many years wandered in strange regions. Meanwhile the day is 
nearly spent, and Telemachus follows Nestor to his palace. But Athene 
takes the form of an eagle and flies away, surprising every one and 
delighting Nestor, who perceives that Telemachus is a favorite of the 
gods, and he at once proposes a sacrifice to Athene, which is offered 
up the next day. Then Telemachus, accompanied by Nestor's son 
Pisistratus, starts in a chariot to Sparta, where they arrive after a two 
days' journey. (Book III.) There, too, Telemachus finds a feast going 
on, for Menelaus is celebrating the marriage of two of his children, 
and he is received with the same hospitality. Telemachus is amazed 
at the splendor of the house, and when Menelaus happens to speak of 
Odysseus, tears gush from the eyes of Telemachus ; at that moment 
Helen enters the room and she at once recognizes the son of Odys- 
seus. Thereupon so many mournful memories are evoked that all 
present burst into tears, which Helen dispels by a magic potion that 
she puts into their wine. Then they talk for a long time about Odysseus 
until the evening grows late. Early the next morning, Menelaus, 
who sympathizes keenly with Telemachus's domestic sorrows, asks 
him his errand, but he can give no satisfactory information about 
Odysseus ; he says, however, that when he was in Egypt the sea-god 
Proteus had told him the fate of many of the heroes of the Trojan 
war: of the younger Ajax, of his brother Agamemnon, and of Odys- 
seus that on the island of Calypso he was in vain yearning for home. 
Thereupon they betake themselves to breakfast. Meanwhile the 
suitors have discovered the departure of Telemachus, and they de- 
termine to lie in wait for him in the strait between Ithaca and Samos 
and to slay him. Penelope also learns that Telemachus is gone, and 
is filled with grief ; by the advice of Eurycleia, who confesses her 
knowledge, she prays to Athene. The suitors send off a galley to 
capture Telemachus, and Penelope, who has fallen asleep, has her 
apprehensions regarding her son's fate pacified by a vision 
sent by Athene. (Book IV.) The perils which still surround 
Odysseus move Athene to urge before Zeus his speedy return ; 
consequently Hermes is at once sent to Calypso with orders 
to let him go immediately. The command fills her with indig- 
nation at the gods, who are forever breaking up the love-affairs of the 
goddesses, but she obeys. She seeks Odysseus, whom she finds on 



ODYSSEUS RESCUED BY NAUSICAA. 



87 



the shore, weeping from homesickness, and announces to him his 
speedy departure. At first he can not believe her, but when she con- 
firms her statement with a solemn oath, he is convinced, and only with 
difficulty represses his delight. The next morning he begins to build 
a raft, which is finished in four days, and on the fifth he sets forth. 
On the eighteenth day of his voyage he sights the land of the Phaea- 
cians, when Poseidon, who is indignant at his escape, sends out a furi- 
ous storm that dismasts the boat and renders it unmanageable. By 
the advice of the sea-nymph Leucothea, who comes to the surface 




ODYSSEUS REVEALING HIMSELF TO NAUSICAA. 
(From a Vase Painting.} 

from the bottom of the sea, Odysseus takes off his clothes, wraps 
himself in a veil which she gives him, and leaps into the water to try 
to swim to the shore. For two days and two nights he swims towards 
it, aided by the north wind, and after many struggles he reaches the 
mouth of a river which carries him to land. Thoroughly exhausted, 
he crawls under some bushes and falls asleep. (Book V.) Nausicaa, 
the daughter of the Phaeacian king, Alcinous, being instigated by a 
dream sent by Athene, goes down to the shore with some companions 
to wash her clothes at the mouth of the river. This done, after a 
bath and food, they all play ball together. Nausicaa accidentally 
throws the ball into the water, whereupon they all scream and awaken 
Odysseus, who crawls forth from beneath the bushes and asks for 
clothes. Nausicaa has a mantle given him and makes preparation 
to conduct him to her father. When they reach the grove of Athene, 
Odysseus stops to pray to that goddess. (Book VI.) Guided by 
Athene, who appears in the form of a maiden carrying water, 
Odysseus goes to the house of Alcinous and admires its splen- 
dor. The goddess envelops him in a cloud that renders 
him invisible until he comes to the king and to the queen, 
Arete, when he clasps the queen's knees in supplication. Alcinous 



88 THE ODYSSEY. 

receives him kindly, and when the elders are gone, the queen asks 
him who he is and whence he comes, whereupon he recounts what has 
happened to him from the time he reached Calypso's island until he 
landed among the Phaeacians. (Book VII.) The next morning 
Alcinous proposes in an assembly of the people that preparations be 
made for sending Odysseus on his way, and that the princes and 
rowers should have a feast in the halls of the palace. Here De- 
modocus, the minstrel, sings before the king and his guests the story 
of a quarrel between Odysseus and Achilles, and Odysseus is moved 
to tears, but Alcinous alone notices his emotion and suggests that 
they go forth to witness the athletic sports. After Odysseus has 
beaten every one at throwing the heavy weight, Demodocus sings of 
the loves of Ares and Aphrodite, and dances close the entertainment. 
All the princes bring valuable presents for Odysseus, and Arete has 
them packed in chests. After supper Demodocus sings of the wooden 
horse and the capture of Troy with such pathos that Odysseus is 
again moved to tears, and Alcinous urges him to tell his name and his 
adventures. (Book VIII.) Odysseus now begins to recount his varied 
experiences from his departure from Troy until he met Calypso. He 
describes his landing among the Cicones in Thrace, the capture of their 
city, and the subsequent defeat of the Achaians with the loss 
of six men from each ship. Then, after being driven for ten days 
by a fierce north wind, they reached the land of the lotos-eaters, 
whence they made their way to the land of the Cyclopes. There they 
had a curious adventure with Polyphemus, whom Odysseus blinded 
and from whose rage they with difficulty escaped. (Book IX.) From 
the land of the Cyclopes Odysseus and the survivors sailed to the float- 
ing island where lived ^Eolus, who sent them away with a favor- 
able west wind, first giving them a huge wallet inclosing 
the other winds. Some of Odysseus's companions opened this wallet 
in sight of Ithaca, while Odysseus was asleep, and the winds bursting 
forth drove the ship back to the ^Eolian islands, but the ruler spurned 
them as men detested of the gods. Hence they wandered for six days, 
and on the seventh day they reached the man-eating Laestrygonians, 
who destroyed all the ships with their crews, except the one of Odys- 
seus, who came next to the ^Eaean island where dwelt Circe. Odysseus 
sent some of his men to this magician, who at once transformed them 
into swine. When Odysseus himself visited her, he escaped her arts 
by means of the magical herb moly, a gift from Hermes ; he won the 
goddess's love, secured the return of his friends to human form, and 
remained with her for a year. He then persuaded her to let him go, 
after she had prophesied that he must descend into Hades in order to 
learn from the shade of the seer Teiresias the manner of his return 



9° 



THE ODYSSEY. 



and his final fate. Circe gave him instructions which Odysseus fol- 
lowed, after Elpenor had failed. (Book X.) He sailed away over the 
ocean until he reached the entrance of the under world, when he 
offered sacrifice, at which the souls of the departed assembled. The 
ghost of Elpenor appeared and besought the rites of burial, then 
appeared Teiresias, who prophesied to Odysseus. Next appeared his 
mother, followed by the spirits of famous heroines, Tyro, Antiope, 
Alcmene, Epicaste, Chloris, Lede, Iphimedeia, Phaedra, Ariadne, 
Maera and Clymene. When at this point of his narration Odysseus 
pauses, all urge him to go on, and he continues, telling them how he 




TRANSFORMED COMRADES OF ODYSSEUS. 



saw the ghosts of the heroes, Agamemnon, Achilles, Ajax, Minos, and 
what they said. After he had beheld the sufferings of some wicked 
men, Tityus, Tantalus, and Sisyphus, and mighty Heracles, he 
returned to the upper world. (Book XI.) After his return to the ^Ea- 
ean island Odysseus buried Elpenor's body and received further direc- 
tions from Circe concerning his further journey. He set sail with a favor- 
able wind, passed safely by the Sirens with their fascinating voices, 
and evaded the Wandering Rocks, passing between Scylla and Charyb- 
dis, although Scylla seized six of his trustiest companions, and finally 
came to the island of Helios, the sun-god. There some of the men, 
against the advice of Odysseus, being impelled by hunger, slaugh- 
tered some of the consecrated cattle, for which sacrilege a fearful tem- 
pest fell upon them after they had set sail once more, that wrecked the 
ship and drowned all but Odysseus, who managed to escape on frag- 
ments of the vessel and to reach the island of Ogygia, where he was 



RETURN OF TELEMACHUS. 91 

detained by Calypso. (Book XII.) Here ends his recital, which 
began in the ninth book ; his further adventures after leaving Ogygia 
are told in the seventh book. 

After finishing his narrative Odysseus receives further presents from 
the Phaeacians, partakes of a parting meal, and embarks in the ship 
which carries him while he sleeps through the night to Ithaca. Before 
he wakes up they set him ashore near the haven of Phorcys, and land 
all his presents, but the ship of the Phaeacians on his way back is turned 
into stone by Poseidon. When Odysseus wakes up, Athene had 
enveloped him in a thick mist so that he did not recognize his 
native land. The goddess soon appears to him in the guise of a 
young shepherd and tells him where he is, assuming once more her 
divine form and dispelling the mist. She then helps him to conceal 
his presents in a cave, and after they have devised a plan for mur- 
dering the suitors, she changes him into an old beggar. (Book XIII.) 
In this disguise Odysseus makes his way to the hut of the swine- 
herd Eumaeus, who receives him kindly and gives him further infor- 
mation concerning the misdeeds of the suitors. Eumaeus asks who he 
is, and Odysseus tells him a long story partly true and partly invented, 
trying to induce the swineherd to believe that his master shall return. 
After supper, by a characteristic device, he wheedles a warm mantle 
from Eumaeus, and sleeps in the hut while the swineherd lies down 
by the swine. (Book XIV.) Meanwhile, Telemachus, who is still 
with Menelaus in Sparta, is advised by Athene, who appears to him 
in a dream, to return home, and is warned of the hostile prepara- 
tions of the suitors. Consequently, after a final banquet, Telemachus, 
laden with gifts, starts off in company with Pisistratus to rejoin his 
comrades in the ship. He embarks at once, taking with him an 
Argive seer named Theoclymenus who had fled from his country for 
murder. While Telemachus is thus journeying back, Eumaeus recounts 
a story of his youth to Odysseus until late in the night. At dawn 
Telemachus lands in Ithaca, and after providing for Theoclymenus, 
goes to the hut of Eumaeus, as Athene had ordered. (Book XV.) 
There he meets the beggar, whom he does not recognize, and sends 
Eumaeus to the city to inform his mother of his return. During his 
absence Athene bids Odysseus to make himself known to his son, 
and they arrange the discomfiture and death of the suitors. Toward 
evening Eumaeus returns to his hut. (Book XVI.) The next morn- 
ing Telemachus alone visits his mother and tells her about his jour- 
ney and introduced to her the seer Theoclymenus. Soon Odysseus 
appears, still disguised as a beggar, and led by Eumaeus ; on his way 
he is shamefully treated by Melanthius, the goatherd. As he enters 
the house his old dog Argos recognizes him and dies. Odysseus 



9 2 THE ODYSSEY. 

begs of the suitors, who generously give him something, but one, 
Antinous, abuses him and beats him with a footstool. Penelope 
asks to speak with the beggar, but he postpones talking with her until 
evening. (Book XVII.) The common beggar Irus tries to drive 
Odysseus away as an intruder, and the suitors, noting the quarrel, ar- 
range a fight between them, in which Irus is worsted, to the amusement 
of the spectators, and Odysseus at once becomes a favorite. Penelope 
then makes her appearance, endowed by Athene with every charm ; she 
makes new promises to the suitors and receives from them precious gifts. 
After she has withdrawn, Odysseus is railed at by her attendant women 
and is again ill-treated by the suitors, who then betake themselves to 
rest. (Book XVIII.) Odysseus is left alone in the hall with Telem- 
achus, and they both carry the arms away, aided by a light which 
Athene sends to them, and Telemachus goes to rest. Then Penelope 
appears and asks the seeming beggar where he comes from. He 
replies with a mixture of truth and falsehood, and concludes with the 
assurance that Odysseus will return in the same year with a new 
moon. She then commends him to the care of Eurycleia, his old 
nurse, who is much struck by his resemblance to Odysseus. She pre- 
pares a footbath and bathes him, and recognizes her master by the 
scar of a wound on his foot that he had received long since from a 
boar that he was hunting. Odysseus with difficulty silences her as 
she starts to betray his secret. Penelope resumes the conversation 
and recounts a dream which she has had, which Odysseus interprets as 
a prophecy of the speedy destruction of the suitors and urges her to 
let the suitors on the morrow test their strength with the bow of 
Odysseus. All then separate for the night. (Book XIX.) Odysseus, 
however, can find no rest, being harassed with thoughts of the morrow's 
contest, and Penelope sighs and laments till daybreak. Odysseus 
hears her weeping and prays to Zeus, who thunders as a sign of good 
omen. The hall fills up once more ; the women, Telemachus 
and Eumaeus appear ; the insolent goatherd brings the goats for the 
dinner, and Philoetius, the cattle. This last-named greets Odysseus 
with kindness, who lets him and Eumaeus know that Odysseus is 
near and will soon slay the suitors. Even now these are gather- 
ing for the morning meal, devising the death of Telemachus. Once 
more their insolence breaks out : one of them hurls an ox's foot at 
Odysseus, who just escapes it. They all go on with their feasting, 
laughing wildly together. Theoclymenus speaks of ominous horrors 
and apparitions that present themselves, and leaves the hall. Telem- 
achus himself is insulted by the suitors. (Book XX.) Then Penelope 
brings out her husband's bow, the very sight of which calls forth har- 
rowing memories, and promises that the one who can bend it and send 



ODYSSEUS SLAYS THE SUITORS. 93 

an arrow through the rings of twelve axes shall be her husband. 
Telemachus takes it, and saying that if he can do the deed his mother 
shall not leave her home, would have succeeded had not Odysseus 
made him a sign that he should desist. Then the soothsayer 
who had already denounced the wooers tried in vain to bend the 
bow, and others also failed. Meanwhile Eumaeus and Philoetius go 
out of the house, followed by Odysseus, who tells them who he is, 
and what they are to do in the approaching fray ; then they all return 
to the hall. When Odysseus asks to be allowed to try the yet un- 
strung bow, the suitors abuse him, but Penelope urges that he be 
allowed to try, and Telemachus still further insists upon it, at the 
same time bidding his mother to leave the hall. The swineherd gives 
the bow to the beggar and has the doors of the hall and outer gates 
quietly barred. The beggar easily strings the bow and the arrow flies 
through the ax-rings to the annoyance of the suitors. Telemachus 
takes his place by his side, armed with sword and lance. (Book XXI.) 
Odysseus, throwing off his rags, springs upon the great threshold, 
and with another arrow kills Antinous ; the suitors spring up and 
look in vain for their weapons. Eurymachus in vain prays for mercy. 
Telemachus fetches arms for his father and himself and for the two 
trusty men who are with them. Athene also joins them, and the fray 
begins ; but the spears of the wooers are powerless, those of Odysseus 
and his little band never miss, and every one of them is put to death 
except the minstrel Phemius and the herald Medon. The women 
set every thing to rights ; the guilty women are hanged, Melanthius, 
the treacherous goatherd, is slain, and the whole place cleansed. 
The women who had remained faithful welcome their master. (Book 
XXII.) Eurycleia announces to Penelope the joyful tidings of her 
husband's return and the slaughter of the wooers, but she is still 
afraid to believe it. She comes down to the hall and sits for 
a long time opposite her husband without a word, although Tel- 
emachus upbraids her lack of confidence. Odysseus orders 
that a marriage festival be celebrated, in order to deceive the 
neighbors with regard to what has happened. Then he convinces 
Penelope, by recalling reminiscences, that he can be no other than 
Odysseus, and in the night, that is miraculously prolonged, the hus- 
band and wife recount all that has befallen them during their separa- 
tion. The next morning Odysseus, Telemachus, and the faithful herds- 
men start to see Laertes, the aged father of Odysseus. (Book XXIII.) 
Hermes conducts the souls of the wooers to the lower world, where 
are assembled the ghosts of many of the Achaian heroes ; among 
them, Agamemnon, who calls Odysseus happy in that his wife is so 
faithful. Meanwhile Odysseus comes to the house of Laertes, whom 



94 THE ODYSSEY. 

he finds at work in his garden. The old man faints when Odysseus 
makes himself known. A meal is at once prepared, and the old 
servants express their delight. Only one thing remains to be done, 









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the report of the slaying of the suitors has created a tumult in the 
city, and an armed band comes forth to put Odysseus and his men to 
death. They seize their weapons, Athene gives Laertes new strength, 
and he overthrows the leaders of the hostile company ; the rest, after 
a futile combat, run away, and the bonds between Odysseus and his 
people are again confirmed. (Book XXIV.) 



THE CHARM OF GREEK LITERATURE. 95 

II. 

Thus ends what one is within bounds in calling the best story in 
the world, for certainly in naturalness, in abundance of interest, in 
wealth of adventure and fullness as Avell as delicacy in the study of 
character, no epic poem approaches it. The Persian and Sanskrit epics 
lack the coherence and moderation of the Greek work ; the Nibelungen- 
lied certainly does not share its completeness ; and the epics that have 
been written in later times too often bear the mark of imitation, to endure 
comparison with the greater originals.. Moreover, we find in Homer 
a vivid enjoyment of the world and of life which is immediately to be 
distinguished from the quality of literary perception of what is beauti- 
ful that characterizes his successors. Something of this charm which 
is most manifest in him lingers throughout all the best part of Greek 
literature, but we soon become aware that the writers perceive the 
complexity of the world and of human experience. They know as well as 
we do, that happiness comes but in flashes, although their temperament 
often inclined them not to insist on this open secret. In Homer, how- 
ever, life is comparatively simple : the gods, whose pedigree has become 
obscure, so that their origin as personification of natural forces is lost, 
are often scarcely more than companions, or older brothers, of men. 
A god is feared and loved simply because he is more powerful than 
human beings ; he is a good friend and a dangerous enemy. Plato's 
remark that man is a god to a dog, well illustrates the Homeric rela- 
tion of humanity to the divine beings above it ; they are exalted men 
of sometimes inexplicable passions and wayward fancies, but repre- 
sentatives of power rather than of right. The moral code which is 
thus reflected on the rulers of the world is a very simple one. In the 
Iliad bravery and magnanimity are seen among all the heroes and 
notably in Achilles ; in the Odyssey it is the ingenuity of Odysseus 
that is presented for admiration, and in the others, faithfulness. 
Odysseus rather eludes than confronts peril, yet we who are 
thoroughly accustomed to travel, may perhaps not readily under- 
stand just how much was implied in the way in which Odysseus 
faced the dangers of the sea. That the audience who heard the 
poem were a home-abiding people becomes evident from various 
allusions therein. The journey of Telemachus to Pylos is spoken of 
as a serious undertaking. " Who knows," a proud youth would say, 
"but that he himself,if he goes hence on the hollow ship, may perish 
wandering far from his friends, even as Odysseus?" The nautical 
excellence of the Phaeacians is extraordinarily praised as something ab- 
normal, and the perils of the sea are made very prominent. Thus, Eu- 
maeus tells Telemachus, " Since thou wentest in thy ship to Pylos, never 



9 6 THE ODYSSEY. 

to this hour, they say, hath he eaten and drunken as before, nor looked 
to the labors of the field, but with groaning and lamentation he 
sits sorrowing, and the flesh wastes away about his bones." Yet 
part of the mental and physical disturbance here and elsewhere may 
be explained as nervousness arising from the importance of his voy- 
age. In the hands of a poet every thing would tend to lending weight 
to the main story and to making impressive, in this case, the neces- 
sity that Odysseus should return. Yet there is no such defense of 
the perturbation of Menelaus when Proteus tells him that he must 
go from the island Pharos to the mouth of the Nile to perform sacri- 
fices : " So spake he, but my spirit within me was broken, in that he 
bade me again to go to ^Egyptus over the misty deep, a long and 
grievous way." Moreover, Odysseus frankly expresses his detesta- 
tion of a sea-faring life, and doubtless his words found an echo among 
the early hearers of the Homeric poems, whose feelings are thus 
reflected with what may be called prehistoric accuracy, in these pic- 
tures of the horrors of the sea. Fortunately Homer had no desire to 
ascribe impossible emotions to his heroes. 

The poem is apparently an old story retold, for besides the fact that 
throughout literature there is no evidence of absolute originality, there 
are many incidents in the Odyssey, such as the parts taken by the gods, 
which can be explained only as allusions to fading traditions of a 
remote past. One of the more interesting of the attempts to inter- 
pret the original significance of these epics is that, already referred to, 
which sees in them late versions of solar myths. The Iliad bears a 
striking resemblance to what we find in the Rig Veda, in which the 
Panis, the spirits of night and winter, steal the cattle of the sun and 
carry them by an uncertain path to a dark cave somewhere in the 
East. Indra sends forth Sarama, the dawn, to bring them back. 
Sarama is tempted by the Panis to disobey his commands, but she 
returns with the desired information, as Helenus returns home with the 
treasures of which Menelaus had been robbed by Paris. Indra and 
the solar heroes can not recover their treasures, however, until they 
capture the offspring of Brisaya, the violet light of dawn, as Achilles 
captures the daughter of Briseis. In the same way in the Iliad, Achilles 
is separated from Briseis and finds her again only at the end. The hero 
leaves the field, as the sun withdraws behind a dark cloud, and finally 
at evening, when Briseis returns, he reappears and kills the cloud that 
had nearly overcome the heroes of daylight, but as he conquers he is 
near his own death at the hands of the evil night-hero, Pani. Sir 
George William Cox, in his " Mythology of the Aryan Nations," and 
his " Tales of Ancient Greece," illustrates in this way both the Iliad 



THE ILIAD AND ODYSSEY COMPARED WITH THE VEDA, ETC. gj 

and the Odyssey by comparing them with the Veda, the Edda, and 
the Nibelungenlied. 

Of the Odyssey he speaks as follows : 

" When Odysseus goes to Troy, he is simply a chieftain in the great host 
which went to recover the treasure taken from the West, like the Argonauts 
in their search for the Golden Fleece. But all these eastward expeditions 
are successful. The robber or seducer is despoiled of his prey, and the vic- 
tors must journey back to their distant home. Thus, round the chieftain of 
each tribe would gather again all the ideas suggested by the ancient myths ; 
and the light reflected from the glory of the great Phthiotic hero might well 
rest on the head of Odysseus as he turns to go from Ilion. Thus would 
begin a new career, not unlike that of Herakles or Perseus in all its essential 
features. Throughout the whole poem the one absorbing desire which fills 
the heart of Odysseus is to reach his home once more and see the wife whom, 
like most other mythical heroes, he had been obliged to leave in the spring- 
time of his career. There are grievous toils and many hindrances on his way, 
but nothing can turn him from his course. He has to fight, like Herakles 
and Perseus, Theseus and Bellerophon, with more than mortal beings and 
more than earthly powers, but he has the strength which they had to over- 
come or to evade them. It is true that he conquers chiefly by strength of 
will and sagacity of mind ; but this again is the phase which the idea of 
Helios, the great eye of day, as surveying and scanning every thing, assumes 
in Medeia, Prometheus, Asklepios, Oidipous, Iamos, and Melampous. The 
other phase, however, is not wanting. He, too, has a bow which none but 
he can wield,* and he wields it to terrible purpose, when, like Achilleus, 
after his time of disguise, he bursts on the astonished suitors, as the sun 
breaks from the stormcloud before he sinks to rest. So, again, in his west- 
ward wanderings (for this is the common path of the children of Zeus or 
Helios), he must encounter fearful dangers. It is no unclouded sky which 
looks down on him as he journeys toward the rocky Ithaka. He has to fight 
with Kyklopes and Laistrygonians ; he has to shun the snares of the Seirens 
and the jaws of Skylla and Charybdis, as Perseus had to overcome the Gor- 
gons, and Theseus to do battle with the Minotauros. Yet there are times of 
rest for him, as for Herakles and Bellerophon. He yearns for the love of 
Penelope, but his grief can be soothed for awhile by the affection of Kirke 
and Kalypso, as Achilleus found solace in that of Diomede, and Herakles 
awhile in that of Deianeira. Nay, wherever he goes, mortal kings and chiefs 
and undying goddesses seek to make him tarry by their side, as Menelaos 
sought to retain Paris in his home by the side of the Spartan Helen, and as 
Gunnar strove to win Sigurd to be the husband of his sister. So is it with 
Alkinoos ; but, in spite of the loveliness and purity of Nausikaa, Odysseus 
may not tarry in the happy land of the Phaiakians, even as he might not tarry 
in the palace of the wise Kirke or the sparkling cave of the gentle Kalypso. 
At last he approaches his home ; but he returns to it unknown and friend- 
less. The sky is as dark as when Achilleus lay nursing his great wrath 

*Odyssey, xxi., 405, /c.-.A. The phraseology of the poet here assumes, perhaps without his being fully aware 
of it, the same tone with the narrative which tells of the arming of Achilleus. Others have tried with all their 
might to bend the bow. Odysseus stretches it without the least effort (aTEp G7C0v6f/g) t and the sound of the 
string is like the whizzing of a swallow in its flight. In an instant every heart is filled with dread, and every 
cheek turns pale {jrani XP'^S STpaTtero), and, to complete the imagery, they hear at the same moment the 
crash of the thunder in the sky. 



9° THE ODYSSEY. 

behind the veil of his sorrow. Still he too, like Achilleus, knows how to take 
vengeance on his enemies ; and in stillness and silence he makes ready for 
the mortal conflict in which he knows that in the end he must be victorious. 
His foes are many and strong ; and, like Patroklos against Hektor, Tele- 
machos* can do but little against the suitors, in whom are reflected the Tro- 
jan enemies of the Achaians. But for him also, as for Achilleus, there is aid 
from the gods. Athene, the daughter of the sky, cheers him on, and restores 
him to the glorious beauty of his youth, as Thetis clothed her child in the 
armour of Hephaistos, and Apollon directed his spear against Hektor. 
Still in his ragged beggar's dress, like the sun behind the rent and tattered 
clouds, he appears in his own hall on the day of doom. The old bow is 
taken down from the wall, and none but he can be found to stretch it. His 
enemies begin to fear that the chief has indeed returned to his home, and 
they crouch in terror before the stranger, as the Trojans quailed at the mere 
sight and war-cry of Achilleus. But their cry for mercy falls as vain as that 
of Lykaon or of Hektor, who must die to avenge the dead Patroklos ; for 
the doom of the suitors is come for the wrongs which they had done to Pen- 
elope. The fatal bow is stretched. The arrows fly deadly and unerring as 
the spear of Artemis, and the hall is bathed in blood. There is nothing to 
stay his arm till all are dead. The sun-god is taking vengeance on the 
clouds, and trampling them down in his fury. The work is done ; and Pene- 
lope sees in Odysseus the husband who had left her long ago to face his 
toils, like Herakles and Perseus. But she will try him still. If indeed he 
be the same, he will know his bridal chamber and the cunningly carved 
couch which his own hands had wrought. Iole will try whether Herakles 
remembers the beautiful net-work of violet clouds which he spread as her 
couch in the morning. The sun is setting in peace. Penelope, fair as Oin- 
one and as pure (for no touch of defilement must pass on her, or on Iole or 
Daphne or Briseis), is once again by his side. The darkness is utterly scat- 
tered ; the corpses of the suitors and of the handmaidens who ministered 
to them cumber the hall no more. A few flying vapours rush at random 
across the sky, as the men of Ithaka raise a feeble clamour in behalf of the 
slain chieftains. Soon these, too, are gone. Penelope and Odysseus are 
within their bridal chamber. Oinone has gone to rest with Paris by her 
side ; but there is no gloom in the house of Odysseus, and the hero lives 
still, strong and beautiful as in the early days. The battle is over. The one 
yearning of his heart has been fulfilled. The sun has laid him down to rest 

In one unclouded blaze of living light. 

If this theory of the solar myths is the true explanation, and it 
certainly seems at least to point out the direction from which light 
may come, it enables us to comprehend what is archaic in these 
poems, and, moreover, teaches us to admire the art of the Greeks in 
lending to what was the common property of the Aryan races so many 
attractive qualities. These traditional stories formed, as it were, the 
material for a competitive examination of the different peoples, and 
that from which the East Indian family drew inspiration for religious 
lyrics, became the subject of epic poetry among the Scandinavian, 

* Grote, History of Greece, Vol. II., page 238. 



THE OLD MYTHS. 



99 



Teutonic and Hellenic races, who sang their own versions of the old 
myths common to all the Aryan nations. The Greek civilization, the 
beautiful land in which it flourished, and possibly some brief period of 
unusual success, enabled some poet or poets to compose the epics 
which stand forever without a rival, for every poet is but the resultant 
of the many forces of the time in which he lives, This explanation 
obviously fails to give ground for any historical lessons to be learned 
from Homer, but, on the other hand, as Sir George Cox says, " it 
reveals to us a momentous chapter in the history of the human mind." 

III. 

In choosing extracts from the Odyssey we shall find that the story 
within the story, that is to say, the hero's recital of his own adven- 
tures, is told with the most vivid interest. Thus in the ninth book : 




ADVENTURES OF ODYSSEUS WITH CIRCE. 



I, then, Odysseus am, Laertes' son, 

For all wise policies a name of fear 

To men ; my rumor to the skies hath gone. 

And sunward Ithaca my country dear 

I boast. Hill Neritus stands waving there 

His green trees visible for many a mile ; 

Centre of soils divine, which, clustering near, 

Stars of the blue sea, round about him smile, 

Dulichium, Same steep, Zacynthus' wood-crowned isle. 



THE ODYSSEY. 

Thus lies the land high-tabled in the main 
Westward ; the others take the morning sun ; 
Rough, but a good nurse, and divine in grain 
Her heroes. Never can I gaze upon 
Land to my mind so lovely as that one, 
Land not to be forgotten — aye, though me 
Calypso in her caves would fain have won, 
And Circe, deep-embowered within the sea, 
Held me with artful wiles her own true love to be. 

Never could these the inward heart persuade, 
Never make sweet the cold unfaithfulness. 
More than all pleasures that were ever made 
Parents and fatherland our life still bless. 
Though we rich home in a strange land possess, 
Still the old memories about us cling. 
But hear, while I the bitter woes express, 
Which, as from Troia I my comrades bring, 
Zeus, the Olympian Sire, around my life did fling. 

Me winds to Ismarus from Ilion bear, 

To the Ciconians. I their town lay waste, 

And wives and wealth with my companions share, 

That none for me might sail away disgraced. 

Anon I urged them with quick feet to haste 

Their flight, but they, infatuate fools, forbore — 

There the red wine they ever dreaming taste, 

While carcasses of sheep lie many a score, 

And trailing-footed beeves, slain on the barren shore. 

But all this while, on other works intent, 

Loudly the Cicons to the Cicons call, 

Who more and braver hold the continent. 

These both from horseback cope with heroes tall, 

Or foot to foot can make their foemen fall. 

Wrapt in the morning mist they loom in view, 

Thick as the leaves and flowers ambrosial, 

Children of Spring. Onward the dark fate drew, 

Big with the woes which Zeus had destined for our due. 

Hard by the swift ships, each in ordered line, 
With steely spears the battle they darrayne. 
While toward the zenith clomb the day divine, 
We, though much fewer, their assault sustain. 
But when toward loosing of the plough did wane 
The slanting sun, then the Ciconian host 
Turned us to flight along the shadowy plain. 
Six of our comrades from each ship were lost, 
But we the rest fled safely from the Thracian coast. 

Then on our course we sail, distressed in heart, 

Glad of our lives, yet grieving for the dead ; 

Natheless we list not from that shore depart, 

Ere thrice with cries we hailed each fallen head 

Of those whose blood the fierce Ciconians shed 

In the wide plain. Ere yet we ceased to weep, 

Zeus on our fleet the rage of Boreas dread 

Launched, and with black clouds veiled the earth and deep, 

While the dark Night came rushing from heaven's stormy steep. 



ODYSSEUS'S ADVENTURES. IOI 

Headlong the ships were driven with tattered sails. 
These having furled we drave our keels ashore, 
Fearing- destruction from the raving gales. 
Two nights and days we eating our heart's core 
Lay till the third light beauteous Dawn upbore ; 
Then we the masts plant, and the white sails spread, 
And sitting lean to the laborious oar. 
Wind and good pilotage the brave barks sped ; 
Soon had I scatheless seen my native earth ahead, 

But me the current and fell Boreas whirled, 
Doubling Malea's cape, and far astray 
Beyond the rude cliffs of Cythera hurled. 
So for nine days along the watery way, 
Teeming with monsters, me the winds affray 
And with destruction ever seem to whelm : 
But, on the afternoon of the tenth day, 
We reached, borne downward with an easy helm, 
Land of the flowery food, the Lotus-eating realm. 

Anon we step forth on the dear mainland, 

And draw fresh water from the springs, and there, 

Seated at ease along the silent strand, 

Not far from the swift ships our meal prepare. 

Soon having tasted of the welcome fare, 

I with the herald brave companions twain 

Sent to explore what manner of men they were, 

Who, on the green earth couched beside the main, 

Seemed ever with sweet food their lips to entertain. 

Who, when they came on the delightful place 
Where those sat feeding by the barren wave, 
There mingled with the Lotus-eating race ; 
W T ho nought of ruin for our comrades brave 
Dreamed in their minds, but of the Lotus gave ; 
And whoso tasted of their flowery meat 
Cared not with tidings to return, but clave 
Fast to that tribe, for ever fain to eat, 
Reckless of home-return, the tender Lotus sweet. 

These sorely weeping by main strength we bore 

Back to the hollow ships with all our speed, 

And thrust them bound with cords upon the floor, 

Under the benches : then the rest I lead 

On board and bid them to the work give heed, 

Lest others, eating of the Lotus, yearn 

Always to linger in that land, and feed, 

Careless for ever of the home-return : 

Then, bending to their oars, the foamy deep they spurn. 

Thence we sailed onward overwhelmed in heart, 

And to the land of the Cyclopes came, 

An undiscerning people, void of art 

In life, and tramplers on the sacred claim 

Of laws which men for civil uses frame. 

Scorners of common weal, no bounds they keep, 

Nor learn with labors the rude earth to tame ; 

Who neither plant nor plough nor sow nor reap ; 

Still in the gods they trust, still careless wake and sleep. 



102 



THE ODYSSEY. 



There all good fruits on the spontaneous soil 
Fed by the rain of Zeus for ever grow ; 
Unsown, untended, corn and wine and oil 
Spring to their hand ; but they no councils know 
Nor justice, but for ever lawless go. 
Housed in the hills, they neither buy nor sell, 
No kindly offices demand or show ; 
Each in the hollow cave where he doth dwell 
Gives law to wife and children, as he thinketh well. 




ODYSSEUS AND THE DRUNKEN CYCLOPS. 
(From a Sarcophagus Relief. ) 

Skirting their harbor, neither near nor far, 

A little island lies, with forest crowned, 

Wherein wild goats in countless numbers are ; 

Since there no track of mortal men is found 

Who hunt in hardship over mountain ground, 

And never plough hath pierced the woodland glen. 

Unvisited it lies the whole year round. 

None their tame flocks amid those pastures pen, 

Feeding wild goats, and widowed of the race of men. 

Not to Cyclopian brood doth appertain 

Skill in the seas, or vermeil-painted fleet 

Of barks, which, sailing o'er the azure main, 

Pass and repass wherever seemeth meet, 

And all the covenants of men complete ; 

Nor have they shipwrights who might build them such ; 

Else would they soon have colonized this seat. 

Not worthless is it, but at human touch 

Would take the seasons well, and yield exceeding much. 



Fast by the margin of the hoary deep 

Lie soft well-watered meadows. There the vine 



ODYSSEUS'S ADVENTURES. 103 

Would bloom for ever. If to plough and reap, 

Observant of the hours, one's heart incline, 

Black with fertility, the soil doth shine. 

Smooth is the haven, nor is need at all 

Of anchor cable, and shore-fastened line. 

Floating in shelter of that firm sea-wall 

Sailors at will may wait till prosperous breezes call. 

There a white waterfall beneath the cave 
Springs forth, and flashes at the haven-head ; 
Round it the whispering alders darkly wave. 
Thitherward sailing through the night we sped, 
Yea, some divinity the swift ships led 
Through glooms not pierceable by power of eye. 
Round us the deep night-air swung listless, dead ; 
Nor moon nor stars looked down from the wide sky, 
Hid by the gross cloud-curtain brooding heavily. 

No mariner beheld the nearing strand, 

Helmsman expert or wielder of the oar, 

Nor marked the long waves rolling on the land. 

Still with a steady prow we onward bore 

Till the keels grated on the shelving shore. 

Then we the sails take down, and, past the line 

Of ripple, landing from the waters hoar, 

Along the margin of the deep recline, 

And sound-asleep wait dreaming for the Dawn divine. 

But when the rosy-fingered Dawn came on, 

Child of the mist, we wondering rose apace 

The beauteous island to explore anon. 

And lo ! the Nymphs inhabiting the place 

Stirred in our sight the creatures of the chase, 

That so my comrades might have food to eat. 

Straight to the ships for bows and spears we race, 

And, parted in three bands, the thickets beat ; 

Soon did the god vouchsafe large spoil exceeding sweet. 

Me twelve ships followed, and for each we won 
Nine goats ; but for myself I chose out ten. 
Thus all day long, till falling of the sun, 
We sat there feasting in the hollow glen ; 
Cheerily I ween the red wine circled then ; 
Since of the liquor there remained much more 
Sealed safely in the ships ; for when our men 
Sacked the Ciconian citadel, good store 
Of wine in earthen vessels to our fleet they bore. 

And on the land of the Cyclopes near 

We looked, and saw their smoke, and heard their hum. 

Also the bleatings of their flocks we hear, 

Till the ambrosial Night made all things dumb. 

But when the rosy-fingered Dawn was come, 

I called my friends, and said : " Stay ye the rest, 

While I go forward to explore with some, 

Mine own ship's crew, what folk this shore infest, 

Despiteful, wild, unjust, or of a gentle breast." 



104 THE ODYSSEY. 

Forthwith I march on board, and bid my crew 
With me their captain the tall bark ascend, 
And the stern-cables vigorously undo. 
They to their several tasks with zeal attend ; 
Then, sitting, to the oars' long sweep they bend, 
And smite in unison the billows hoar. 
Right quickly to the continent we wend ; 
And lo ! a huge deep cave our eyes before, 
Shaded about with laurels, very near the shore. 

And all around the flocks and herds recline, 
Parked by a rough-hewn fence of mountain stone, 
Ail overhung with oak and tow'ry pine. 
There dwelt the monstrous keeper all alone, 
Who in his breast no kindred ties did own, 
But, far apart, ungodly ways pursued ; 
Sight not resembling human flesh and bone, 
But like a mountain-column, crowned with wood, 
Reigning above the hills in awful solitude. 

Then of my comrades I the rest command 

To guard the well-benched ship, remaining there, 

But I the while with my twelve bravest land, 

And of dark wine an ample goatskin bear, 

Which Maron, venerable priest and seer 

Of lord Apollo, the divine defence 

Of Ismarus, because we held him dear, 

Son of Euanthes, gave us to take thence, 

Whom with his wife and child we saved in reverence» 

Deep-foliaged grove his dwelling doth enfold, 
Phoebus Apollo's, who there keeps his shrine. 
Rich gifts he gave me — talents seven of gold 
Which curiously was wrought and well did shine, 
And bowl of silver, and twelve jars of wine, 
Which in his halls lay hidden out of view, 
Mellow with age, unmingled, sweet, divine; 
Known but to him the priest and other two, 
His wife and chief house-dame, of all his retinue. 

When they the red wine drank, he filled one cup, 

Which when in twenty measures he did pour 

Of water, and the scent divine rose up, 

'Twere hard to hold one's cravings any more. 

Thereof a goatskin filled I with me bore, 

And in a wallet did provision crowd, 

For my brave heart at once foreboded sore, 

How I a man should meet, unpitying, proud, 

Lawless and void of right, with giant strength endowed. 

Soon to the cave we came, nor him there found, 
Who 'mid the pastures with his flocks did stay. 
We then the crates admire with cheeses crowned, 
And the pens, packed with kids and lambs, survey 
Where in his place each kind distinguished lay. 
Here rest the firstlings, there the middle-born, 
And further on the yeanlings. Brimmed with whey 
Pails, ranged in ordered rank, the walls adorn — 
Wherein his flocks he wont to milk at eve and morn. 






ODYSSEUS'S ADVENTURES. 105 

With strong persuasion me my friends besought 

To steal some cheeses, and return with haste 

To the swift ship, and thither having brought 

Both kids and fat lambs, from their pens displaced, 

Sailing to vanish o'er the watery waste. 

I to our loss would not persuaded be, 

Wishing to see him and his cheer to taste, 

If chance he lend me hospitality — 

Alas ! to my poor friends no welcome host proved he ! 

We then for holy offerings kindle flame, 

Eat of the cheeses, and till eventide 

Wait. Then with flocks and herds the Cyclops came 

Bearing a mighty pile of pine wood dried, 

Wherewith his evening meal might be supplied. 

Down with a crash he cast it in the cave ; 

We to the deep recess ran terrified. 

Anon his flocks within the walls he drave, 

But to the males a place without the courtyard gave. 

Forthwith a rock stupendous with his hands 

He lifted, and athwart the entrance flung. 

Firm-rooted o'er the cave's deep mouth it stands. 

Not two-and-twenty wagons, four-wheeled, strong, 

Ever could move the mighty bulk along. 

Then sat he down and milked each teeming ewe 

And she-goat, and anon their eager young 

Under the dams disposed in order due ; 

And all the while thick bleatings rang the wide cave through. 

Half the white milk he curdled, and laid up 

On crates of woven wicker-work with care ; 

And half he set aside in bowl and cup 

To stand in readiness for use, whene'er 

Thirst should invite, and for his evening fare. 

Thus he his tasks right busily essayed, 

And at the last a red flame kindled there ; 

And, while the firelight o'er the cavern played, 

Us crouching he espied, and speedy question made. 

Strangers, who are ye? from what strand unknown 

Sail ye the watery ways ? After some star 

Of purpose, or on random courses blown 

Range ye like pirates, whom no perils bar, 

Who risk their own lives other men to mar ? " 

So made he question, and our dear heart brake, 

Scared at the dread voice searching near and far, 

The rough rude accent, and the monstrous make, 

Natheless, though sore cast down, I thus responding spake : 

We sons of Argos, while from Troy we keep 
Straight homeward, driven by many storms astray, 
Over the wide abysses of the deep, 
Chance on another course, a different way. 
Haply such doom upon us Zeus doth lay. 
Also of Agamemnon, Atreus' son, 
Soldiers we are, and his command obey 
Whose name rings loudest underneath the sun, 
City so vast he sacked, such people hath undone. 



106 THE ODYSSEY. 

"So in our wanderings to thy knees we come 
If thou the boon of hospitality 
Wouldst furnish to our wants, or render some 
Of those sweet offices which none deny 
To strangers. Thou at least the gods on high 
Respect, most noble one ! for theirs are we, 
Who now poor suppliants on thy help rely ; 
Chiefly revere our guardian Zeus, for he 
Avenger of all such is ever wont to be ! " 

So did I speak : he ruthlessly replied : 
" O fool, or new from some outlandish place, 
Who by the fear of gods hast me defied ! 
What then is Zeus to the Cyclopian race, 
Matched with whose strength the blessed gods are base ? 
Save that I choose to spare your heads, I trow 
Zeus will not much avail you in this case. 
But tell me where your good ship ye bestow, 
At the land's end or near, that I the truth may know." 

Thus spake he, urging trial of our state, 
Nor caught me, in the experience manifold 
Well versed. With crafty words I answered straight : 
" Mighty Poseidon, who the earth doth hold, 
Near the far limits which your land enfold, 
On the sharp rocks our vessel did impel. 
Thither a great wind from the deep us rolled. 
I with these comrades from the yawning hell 
Of waters have alone escaped, the tale to tell." 

He nought replied, but of my comrades twain 

Seized, and like dog-whelps on the cavern-floor 

Dashed them : the wet ground steamed with blood and brain. 

Straight in his ravin limb from limb he tore 

Fierce as a lion, and left nothing o'er ; 

Flesh, entrails, marrowy bones of men just killed. 

Gorging. To Zeus our hands, bemoaning sore, 

We raised in horror, while his maw he filled, 

And human meat devoured, and milk in rivers swilled. 

After his meal he lay down with the sheep. 

I, at the first, was minded to go near 

And in his liver slake my drawn sword deep ; 

But soon another mind made me forbear ; 

For so should we have gained destruction sheer, 

Since never from the doorway could we move 

With all our strength the stones which he set there. 

We all night long with groans our anguish prove, 

Till rosy-fingered Dawn shone forth in heaven above. 

At dawn a fire he kindled in the cave, 
And milked the famous flocks in order due, 
And to each mother her young suckling gave. 
But when the morning tasks were all gone through, 
He, of my wretched comrades seizing two, 
Gorged breakfast as became his savage taste, 
And with the fat flocks from the cave withdrew. 
Moved he the stone, and set it back with haste, 
Lightly as on some quiver he the lid replaced ; 






ODYSSEUS'S adventures. 107 

Then toward the mountain turned with noise ; but I 

Sat brooding on revenge, and made my prayer 

To Pallas, and resolved this scheme to try : 

For a huge club beside the sheepfold there, 

Green olive-wood, lay drying in his lair, 

Cut for a staff to serve him out -of doors, 

Which we admiring to the mast compare 

Of some wide merchantman with twenty oars, 

Which the divine abysses of the deep explores. 

Therefrom I severed as it were an ell, 

And bade my comrades make it smooth and round. 

Then to a tapering spire I shaped it well, 

And the green timber in the flame embrowned 

For hardness ; and, where dung did most abound, 

Deep in the cave the pointed stake concealed. 

Anon my comrades cast their lots all round, 

Which should with me the fiery weapon wield, 

And twirl it in his eye while sleep his huge strength sealed. 

Then were four chosen — even the very same 

Whom I myself should have picked out to be 

My comrades in the work — and me they name 

The fifth, their captain. In the evening he 

Came, shepherding his flocks in clue degree, 

Home from the hills, and all his fleecy rout 

Into the wide cave urged imperiously, 

Nor left one loiterer in the space without, 

Whether from God so minded, or his own dark doubt. 

Soon with the great stone he blocked up the cave, 

And milked the bleating flocks in order due, 

And to each mother her young suckling gave. 

But when the evening tasks were all gone through, 

He of my wretched comrades seizing two 

Straight on the horrible repast did sup. 

Then I myself near to the Cyclops drew, 

And, holding in my hands an ivy cup 

Brimmed with the dark-red wine, took courage and spake up : 

Cyclops, take wine, and drink after thy meal 

Consumed, of human flesh, that thou mayest know 

The kind of liquor wherein we sailors deal. 

This a drink-offering have I brought, that so 

Thou mightest pity me and let me go 

Safe homeward. Thou alas ! with fury extreme 

Art raving, and thy fierceness doth outgrow 

All bounds of reason. How then dost thou dream 

Others will seek thy place, who dost so ruthless seem ? " 

He then received and drank and loudly cried 

Rejoicing : " Give me, give me more, and tell 

Thy name, that some good boon I may provide. 

True, the rich earth where the Cyclopes dwell, 

Fed by the rain of Zeus, in wine doth well, — 

But this is nectar, pure ambrosia's soul." 

So spake he. Thrice I gave the fatal spell ; 

Thrice in his foolishness he quaffed the whole. 

Then said I, while his brain with the curling fumes did roll : 



08 THE ODYSSEY. 

" Cyclops, thou askest me my name renowned — 
Now will I make it known ; nor thou withhold 
That boon whereto thy solemn troth is bound — 
Hear then ; my name is Noman. From of old 
My father, mother, these my comrades bold, 
Give me this title." So I spake, and he 
Answered at once with mind of ruthless mould : 

*' This shall fit largess unto Noman be — 
Last, after all thy peers, I promise to eat thee." 

Therewith his head fell and he lay supine, 
Tamed by the stroke of all-subduing sleep ; 
And the vast neck heaved, while rejected wine 
And morsels of men's flesh in spasms did leap 
Forth from his throat. Then did I rise, and deep 
In the live embers hid the pointed stake, 
Urging my comrades a good heart to keep. 
Soon the green olive-wood the fire did bake 
Then all a-glow with sparkles I the red brand take. 

Round me my comrades wait. The gods inbreathe 

Fierce ardour. In his eye we thrust the brand, 

I twirling from above and they beneath. 

As when a shipwright at his work doth stand 

Boring ship-timber, and on either hand 

His fellows, kneeling at their toil below, 

Whirl the swift auger with a leathern band 

For ever ; — we the weapon keep whirling so, 

While round the fiery point red blood doth bubbling flow. 

And from the burning eyeball the fierce steam 

Singed all his brows, and the deep roots of sight 

Crackled with fire. As when in the cold stream 

Some smith the axe untempered, fiery-white, 

Dips hissing ; for thence comes the iron's might , 

So did his eye hiss, and he roared again. 

Loudly the vault rebellowed. We in flight 

Rushed diverse. He the stake wrenched forth amain, 

Soaked in the crimson gore, and hurled it mad with pain ; 

Then, bursting forth into a mighty yell, 

Called the Cyclopes, who in cave and lair 

'Mid the deep glen and windy hill-tops dwell. 

They, trooping to the shriek from far and near, 

Ask from without what ails him : " In what fear 

Or trouble, Polyphemus, dost thou cry 

Through night ambrosial, and our slumbers scare ? 

Thee of thy flocks doth mortal violently 

Despoil, or strive to kill by strength or treachery ? " 

And frenzied Polyphemus from the cave 

This answer in his pain with shrieks out-threw : 

" Never by strength, my friends, or courage brave ! 
Noman by treachery doth me subdue." 
Whereto his fellows winged words renew : 

" Good sooth ! if no man work thee injury, 
But in thy lone resort this sickness grew, 
The hand of Zeus is not to be put by — 
Go, then, in filial prayer to king Poseidon cry." 



ODYSSE US'S AD VENTURES. 



109 



So they retiring; and I laughed in heart, 

To find the shrewd illusion working well. 

But the dread Cyclops over every part 

Groped eyeless with wild hands in anguish fell, 

Rolled back the massive mouthstone from the cell, 

And in the door sat waving everywhere 

His lightless arms, to capture or repel 

Any forth venturing with his flocks to fare — 

Dreaming to deal with one of all good prudence bare. 

Seeking deliverance 'mid these dangers rife. 

So deadly-near the mighty evil pressed, 

All thoughts I weave as one that weaves for life, 

All kinds of scheming in my spirit test ; 

And this of various counsels seemed the best. 

Fat rams there were, with goodly fleeces dight 

Of violet-tinted wool. These breast to breast 

I silent link of osiers twisted tight, 

Whereon the ill-minded Cyclops used to sleep at night. 

By threes I linked them, and each middle one 

Carried a man : one walked on either side : 

Such was our plan the monster's rage to shun ; 

And thus three rams for each man we provide. 

But I, choosing a beast than all beside 

Fairer, in length more large and strength of spine, 

Under his belly in the woolly hide 

Clinging with both hands resolutely recline ; 

And thus, groaning in soul, we wait the Dawn divine. 




ESCAPE OF ODYSSEUS BOUND TO THE RAM. 
(Fro77i a Vase Painting?) 

But with the rosy-fingered Morn troop thence 
The fat rams toward their pastures eagerly, 
While bleat the unmilked ewes with udders tense, 
Distressful. So their lord, while each went by, 
Feeling their backs with many a bitter sigh, 
Dreamed not that we clung bound beneath the breast. 
Last came the great ram, trailing heavily 
Me and his wool, with cumbrous weight oppressed. 
Him mighty Polyphemus handling thus addressed : 



HO THE ODYSSEY, 

" Ah ! mine own fondling, why dost linger now 
So late ? — far other wast thou known of old. 
With lordly steps the flowery pastures thou 
First ever seekest, and the waters cold, 
First too at eve returnest to the fold. — 
Now last of all — dost thou thy master's eye 
Bewail, whose dear orb, when I sank controlled 
With wine, this Noman vile with infamy, 
Backed by his rascal crew, hath darkened treacherously ? 

" Whom let not vaunt himself escaped this debt, 
Nor think me quenched and poor and powerless ; 
Vengeance may chance to overtake him yet. 

hadst thou mind like mine, and couldst address 
Thy master, and the secret lair confess 
Wherein my wrath he shuns, then should his brain 
Dashed on the earth with hideous stamp impress 
Pavement and wall, appeasing the fell pain 

Which from this Noman-traitor nothing-worth I drain ! " 

Thus spake he, and the great ram from his doors 

Dismissed. A little eastward from the cave 

Borne with the flock we passed, and left his floors 

Blood-stained behind, escaping a dire grave. 

First mine own bands I loosened, and then gave 

My friends their freedom : but the slow fat sheep, 

Lengthily winding, to the ships we drave. 

Joy stirred within our comrades strong and deep, 

Glad of our help from doom, though forced the slain to weep, 

Natheless their lamentations I made cease, 
And with bent brows gave signal not to wail ; 
But with all haste the flock so fine of fleece 
Bade them on shipboard set, and forward sail. 
So they the canvas open to the gale 
And with timed oarage smite the foamy mere. 
Soon from such distance as the voice might hail 
A landsman, and by shouting make him hear, 

1 to the Cyclops shrilled with scorn and cutting jeer : 

"Cyclops, you thought to eat a poor man's friends 
Here in your cavern by sheer brutal might. 
Go to : rough vengeance on thy crime attends ; 
Since, in thy soul not reverencing the right, 
Thy guests thou hast devoured in foul despite, 
Even on thine own hearth. Therefore Zeus at last 
And all the gods thine evil deeds requite." 
So did I blow wind on his anger's blast. 
He a hill-peak tore off, and the huge fragment cast 

Just o'er the blue-prowed ship. As the mass fell, 

Heaved in a stormy tumult the great main, 

Bearing us landward on the refluent swell. 

I a long barge-pole seize and strive and strain 

To work our vessel toward the deep again, 

Still beckoning to my crew to ply the oar ; 

Who stoop to the strong toil and pull right fain 

To twice the former distance from the shore. 

Then stood I forth to hail the Cyclops yet once more. 






OD YSSE US' S AD VENTURE S. 1 1 1 

Me then my friends with dear dissuasions tire 

On all sides, one and other. " Desperate one ! 

Why wilt thou to a wild man's wrath add fire? 

Hardly but now did we destruction shun, 

So nigh that hurling had our bark undone. 

Yea, let a movement of the mouth but show 

Where through the billows from his rage we run, 

And he with heads will strew the dark sea-flow, 

And break our timbered decks — so mightily doth he throw." 

So spake they, but so speaking could not turn 
My breast large-hearted ; and again I sent 
Accents of wrath, his inmost soul to burn : 
" Cyclops, if mortal man hereafter, bent 
To know the story of this strange event, 
Should of thy hideous blindness make demand, 
Asking whence came this dire disfigurement, 
Name thou Laertes-born Odysseus' hand, 
Waster of walls, who dwells in Ithaca's rough land." 

Then did he groaning in these words reply : 
" Gods ! the old oracles upon me break — 
That warning of the antique prophecy 
Which Telemus Eurymides once spake — 
Skilled seer, who on our hills did auguries take, 
And waxed in years amid Cyclopian race. 
Of all these things did he foreshadowings make, 
And well proclaimed my pitiable case, 
And how this lightless brow Odysseus should deface. 

" But always I some great and beauteous man 
Expected, one in awful strength arrayed, 
So to assail me as the legend ran. 
Now one unworthy by unworthy aid 
Doth blind me helpless, and with wine waylaid, 
And al-to strengthless doth surpass the strong. 
But come, Odysseus, let respect be paid 
To thee my guest, and thou shalt sail ere long, 
By the Earth-shaker wafted, free from scathe and wrong. 

w His child am I, my sire he boasts to be, 
Who if he will, none else of mortal seed 
Or of the blest, can heal my wound." Thus he : 
But I made answer : " Now in very deed 
I would to heaven this right arm might succeed 
So surely in thy death, as I am sure 
That not Poseidon even, at thy need, 
Thee of thine eyelessness hath power to cure, 
Know well thy fatal hurt forever shall endure." 

Then to the king Poseidon he made prayer, 
Lifting his heart up to the starry sky : 
u Hear now, great monarch of the raven hair ; 
Holder of earth, Poseidon, hear my cry, 
If thou my father art indeed, and I 
Thy child ! Or ever he the way fulfil, 
Make thou Laertes-born Odysseus die, 
Waster of walls ! or should the high Fates will 
That friends and home he see, then lone and late and ill 



112 THE ODYSSEY. 

" Let him return on board a foreign ship, 
And in his house find evil ! " Thus he prayed 
With hand uplifted and indignant lip : 
And the dark-haired one heeded what he said. 
He then his hand upon a great stone laid, 
Larger by far than that he hurled before, 
And the huge mass in booming flight obeyed 
The measureless impulse, and right onward bore, 
There 'twixt the blue-prowed bark descending and the shore, 

Just short of ruin ; and the foaming wave 
Whitened in boiling eddies where it fell, 
And rolling toward the isle our vessel drave, 
Tossed on the mane of that tumultuous swell. 
There found we all our fleet defended well, 
And comrades sorrow-laden on the sand, 
Hoping if yet, past hope, the seas impel 
Their long-lost friends to the forsaken strand — 
Grated our keel ashore ; we hurrying leap on land. 

Straight from the hollow bark our prize we share, 

That none might portionless come off. To me 

The ram for my great guerdon then and there 

My well-greaved comrades gave in courtesy ; 

Which I to Zeus, supreme in majesty, 

Killed on the shore, and burned the thighs with fire: 

But to mine offering little heed gave he ; 

Since deep within his heart the cloud-w T rapt Sire 

Against both friends and fleet sat musing deathful ire. 

So till the sun fell did we drink and eat, 

And all night long beside the billows lay 

Till blushed the hills 'neath morning's rosy feet ; 

Then did I bid my friends, with break of day, 

Loosen the hawsers, and each bark array ; 

Who take the benches and the whitening main 

Cleave with the sounding oars, and sail away. 

So from the isle we part, not void of pain, 

Right glad of our own lives, but grieving for the slain. 

The passage describing Eurycleia's recognition of Odysseus is thus 
translated by Messrs. Butcher and Lang : (Book XIX.) 

Then wise Penelope answered him : " Ah ! stranger, would that this 
word may be accomplished. Soon shouldst thou be aware of kindness and 
many a gift at my hands, so that whoso met with thee would call thee 
blessed. But on this wise my heart has a boding, and so shall it be. 
Neither shall Odysseus come home any more, nor shalt thou gain an escort 
hence, since there are not now such masters in the house as Odysseus was 
among men, — if ever such an one there was, — to welcome guests revered 
and speed them on their way. But do ye, my handmaids, wash this man's 
feet and lay a bed for him, mattress and mantles and shining blankets, that 
well and warmly he may come to the time of golden-throned Dawn. And 
very early in the morning bathe him and anoint him, that within the house 
beside Telemachus he may eat meat, sitting quietly in the hall. And it shall 
be the worse for any hurtful man of the wooers, that vexes the stranger, yea 



EURYCLEIA RECOGNIZES ODYSSEUS. 113 

he shall not henceforth profit himself here, for all his sore anger. For how 
shalt thou learn concerning me, stranger, whether indeed I excel all women 
in wit and thrifty device, if all unkempt and evil clad thou sittest at supper in 
my halls ? Man's life is brief enough ! And if any be a bad man and hard 
at heart, all men cry evil on him for the time to come, while yet he lives, and 
all men mock him when he is dead. But if any be a blameless man and 
blameless of heart, his guests noise abroad his fame among all men and 
many call him excellent." 

Then Odysseus, rich in counsel, answered her and said : " O wife revered 
of Odysseus, son of Laertes, mantles verily and blankets are hateful to me, 
since first I left behind me the snowy hills of Crete, voyaging in the long- 
oared galley : nay I would lie as in time past I was used to rest through the 
sleepless nights. For full many anight I have lain on an unsightly bed, and 
awaited the bright-throned Dawn. And baths for the feet are no longer my 
delight, nor shall any women of those who are serving maidens in thy house 
touch my foot, unless there chance to be some old wife, true of heart, one 
that has borne as much trouble as myself ; I would not grudge that such 
an one should touch my feet." 

Then wise Penelope answered him : " Dear stranger, for there has been 
none ever so discreet as thou, nor dearer, of all the strangers from afar that 
have come to my house, so clearly thou speakest all things discreetly ; I 
have such an ancient woman of an understanding heart, that diligently nursed 
the hapless man my lord, and cherished him and took him in her arms, in 
the hour when his mother bare him. She will wash thy feet, albeit she is 
weak with age. Up now, wise Eurycleia, and wash this man, who is of like 
age with thy master. Yea and perchance the feet and hands of Odysseus 
are even now such as his, for men quickly age in sorrow." 

So she spake, and the old woman covered her face with her hands and 
shed warm tears, and spake a word of lamentation, saying : 

" Ah ! woe is me, child, for thy sake, all helpless that I am ! Surely Zeus 
hated thee above all men, though thou hadst a god-fearing spirit ! For 
never yet did any man burn so many fat pieces of the thigh and so many 
choice hecatombs to Zeus, whose joy is in the thunder, as thou didst give 
to him, with prayers that so thou mightest grow to a smooth old age and 
rear thy renowned son. But now from thee alone hath Zeus wholly cut 
off the day of thy returning. Haply at him too were the women like to 
mock among strangers afar, whensoever he came to the famous palace of 
any lord, even as here these shameless ones all mock at thee. To shun their 
insults and many taunts it is that thou sufferest them not to wash thy feet, 
but the daughter of Icarius, wise Penelope, hath bidden me that am right 
willing to this task. Wherefore I will wash thy feet, both for Penelope's 
sake and for thine own, for that my heart within me is moved with pity. And 
now mark the word that I shall speak. Many strangers travel-worn have 
ere now come hither, but I say that I have never seen any so like as thou art 
in fashion and voice and feet to Odysseus." 

Then Odysseus, rich in counsel, answered her, saying : " Old wife, even 
so all men declare, that have beheld us twain, that we favor each other 
exceedingly, even as thou dost truly say." 

Thereupon the crone took the shining cauldron which she used for the 
washing of feet, and poured in much cold water and next mingled there- 
with the warm. Now Odysseus sat aloof from the hearth, and of a sudden 
he turned his face to the darkness, for anon he had a misgiving of heartiest 



H4 THE ODYSSEY, 

when she handled him she might recognize the scar, and all should be 
revealed. Now she drew near her lord to wash him, and straightway she 
knew the wound, that the boar had driven with his white tusk long ago, when 
Odysseus went to Parnassus to see Autolycus, and the sons of Autolycus, his 
mother's noble father, who outdid all men in thievery and skill in swearing. 
This skill was the gift of the god himself, even Hermes, for that he burned 
to him the well pleasing sacrifice of the thighs of lambs and kids ; where- 
fore Hermes abetted him gladly. Now Autolycus came to the rich land 
of Ithaca, and found his daughter's son a child new-born, and when he 
was making an end of supper, behold Eurycleia set the babe on his knees, 
and spake and hailed him : " Autolycus, find thou a name thyself to give thy 
child's own son ; for lo ! he is a child of many prayers." 

Then Autolycus made answer and spake : " My daughter and my daugh- 
ter's lord, give ye him whatsoever name I tell you. For behold I am come 
hither in great wrath against many men and women over the fruitful earth, 
wherefore let the child's name be ' a man of wrath,' Odysseus. But when 
the child reaches its full growth, and comes to the great house of his mother's 
kin at Parnassus, whereby are my possessions, I will give him a gift out of 
these and send him on his way rejoicing." 

Therefore it was that Odysseus went to receive the splendid gifts. And 
Autolycus and the sons of Autolycus grasped his hands and greeted him with 
gentle words, and Amphithea, his mother's mother, cast her arms about him 
and kissed his face and his beautiful eyes. Then Autolycus called to his 
renowned sons to get ready the meal, and they hearkened to the call. So 
presently they led in a five-year-old bull, which they flayed and busily pre- 
pared, and cut up all the limbs and deftly chopped them small and pierced 
them with spits and roasted them cunningly, dividing the messes. So for 
that livelong day they feasted till the going down of the sun, and their souls 
lacked not aught of the equal banquet. But when the sun sank and dark- 
ness came on, then they laid them to rest and took the boon of sleep. 

Now so soon as early Dawn shone forth, the rosy-fingered, they all went 
forth to the chase, the hounds and the sons of Autolycus, and with them 
went the goodly Odysseus. So they fared up the steep hill of wood-clad 
Parnassus, and quickly they came to the windy hollows. Now the sun was 
but just striking on the fields, and was come forth from the soft flowing 
stream of deep Oceanus. Then the beaters reached a glade of the wood- 
land, and before them the hounds ran tracking a scent, but behind them 
came the sons of Autolycus, and among them goodly Odysseus followed 
close on the hounds, swaying a long spear. Thereby in a thick lair was a 
great boar lying, and through the coppice the force of the wet winds blew 
never, neither did the bright sun light on it with his rays, nor could the rain 
pierce through, so thick it was, and of fallen leaves there was great plenty 
therein. Then the noise of the men's feet and the dogs' came upon the 
boar, as they pressed on in their hunting, and forth from his lair he sprang 
towards them with his back well bristled and fire shining in his eyes, and 
stood at bay before them all. Then Odysseus was the first to rush in, hold- 
ing his spear aloft in his strong hand, most keen to smite ; but the boar was 
too quick for him and struck him above the knee, ripping through much 
flesh with his tusk as he charged sideways, but he reached not to the bone 
of the man. But Odysseus smote at his right shoulder and hit it, so that the 
point of the bright spear went clean through, and the boar fell in the dust 
with a cry, and his life passed from him. Then the sons of Autolycus began 
to busy them with the carcase, and as for the wound of the noble godlike 






n6 



THE ODYSSEY. 



Odysseus, they bound it up skilfully, and stayed the black blood with a song 
of healing, and straightway returned to the house of their dear father. 
Then Autolycus and the sons of Autolycus got him well healed of his 
wound, and gave him splendid gifts, and quickly sent him with all love to 
Ithaca, gladly speeding a glad guest. There his father and lady mother 
were glad of his returning, and asked him of all his adventures, and of his 
wound how he came by it, and duly he told them all, namely, how the boar 
gashed him with his white tusk in the chase, when he had gone to Parnassus 
with the sons of Autolycus. 

Now the old woman took the scarred limb and passed her hands down it, 
and knew it by the touch and let the foot drop suddenly, so that the knee 
fell into the bath, and the vessel rang, being turned over on the other side, 
and that water was spilled on the ground. Then grief and joy came on her 
in one moment, and her eyes filled up with tears, and the voice of her utter- 
ance was stayed, and touching the chin of Odysseus she spake to him, saying : 

" Yea, verily thou art Odysseus, my dear child, and I knew thee not 
before, till I had handled all the body of my lord." 

Therewithal she looked toward Penelope, as minded to make a sign that 
her husband was now home. But Penelope could not meet her eyes nor 
understand, for Athene had bent her thoughts to other things. But Odys- 
seus feeling for the old woman's throat seized it with his right hand and 
with the other drew her closer to him and spake, saying : 

"Woman, why wouldst thou indeed destroy me? It was thou that didst 
nurse me there at thine own breast, and now after travail and much pain I 
am come here in the twentieth year to mine own country. But since thou 
art ware of me, and the god has put this in thy heart, be silent lest another 
learn the matter in the halls. For on this wise I will declare it, and it shall 
surely be accomplished : If the gods subdue the lordly wooers unto me, I 
will not hold my hand from thee, my nurse though thou art, when I slay the 
other handmaids in my halls." Then wise Eurycleia answered, saying : 
" My child, what word hath escaped the door of thy lips ! Thou knowest 
how firm is my spirit and unyielding, and 1 will keep me close as hard stone 
or iron. Yet another thing will I tell thee, and do thou ponder it in thine 
heart. If the gods subdue the lordly wooers to thy hand, then will I tell 
thee all the tale of the women in the halls, which of them dishonour thee and 
which be guiltless." 

Then Odysseus, rich in counsel, answered her saying : " Nurse, wherefore 
I pray thee wilt thou speak of these ? Thou needest not, for even I myself 
will mark them and take knowledge of each. Nay, do thou keep thy saying 
to thyself, and leave the rest to the gods." Even so he spake, and the old 
woman passed forth from the hall to bring water for his feet, for that first 
water was all spilled. So when she had washed him and anointed him well 
with olive oil, Odysseus again drew up his settle nearer to the fire to warm 
himself, and covered up the scar with his rags. 

There is another beautiful passage describing the dog's welcome to 
his master, in the seventeenth book : 

Thus they spake one to the other. And lo ! a hound raised up his head 
from where he lay and pricked his ears, Argos, the hound of the enduring 
Odysseus, which of old himself had bred, but had got no joy of him, for ere 
that, he went to sacred Ilios. Now in time past the young men used to lead 
the dog against wild goats and deer and hares ; but now was his master 



ODYSSEUS AND HIS DOG AKGOS, 



117 



gone, and he lay cast out in the deep dung of mules and kine, whereof he 
found great plenty spread before the doors, till the thralls of Odysseus 
should carry it away to dung therewith his wide demesne. There lay the 
dog Argos, full of vermin. Yet even now when he saw Odysseus standing 
by, he wagged his tail and dropped both his ears, but nearer to his master he 
had not the strength to draw. But Odysseus looked aside and wiped away 
a tear that he easily hid from Eumaeus, and straightway he asked him, say- 
ing : 

" Eumaeus, verily this is a great marvel, this hound lying here in the dung. 
Truly he is goodly of limb, but I know not certainly if he have speed with 
his beauty, or if he be comely only as are men's trencher dogs that their lords 
keep for the pleasure of the eye." 

Then didst thou make answer, swineherd Eumaeus : " In very truth this 
is the dog of a man that has died in a far land. If he were what once he 
was in limb and in the feats of the chase, when Odysseus left him to go to 
Troy, thou wouldst marvel at the sight of his swiftness and his strength. 
There was no monster that could flee from him in the deep places of the 
wood, when he was in pursuit ; for even on a track he was the keenest hound. 
But now he is holden in an evil case, and his lord has perished far from his 
own country, and the careless women take no charge of him. Nay, thralls 
are no more inclined to honest service when their masters have lost the 
dominion, for Zeus, of the far-borne voice, takes away the half of a man's 
virtue when the day of slavery comes upon him." 

Therewith he passed within the fair-lying house, and went straight to the 
hall, to the company of the proud wooers. But upon Argos came the fate 
of black death, even in the hour that he beheld Odysseus again, in the 
twentieth year. 




ARGOS RECOGNIZES IN THE BEGGAR, HIS MASTER ODYSSEUS, 



CHAPTER IV.— THE EPICS IN GENERAL, AND THE 
HOMERIC HYMNS. 

I. — Extravagance of Some of the Praise given to Homer by Over-enthusiastic Admirers 
— Some of the Points of Resemblance and Difference between the Iliad and 
Odyssey, as in the relation of Gods to Men, etc. ; The Different Kinds of Similes 
in the Two Poems ; of Epithets — The Moral Law as it is Implied and Stated. 
II. — The Other Compositions Ascribed to Homer ; Hymns, Parodies and Minor 
Poems — The Light that the Hymns throw on Early Religious Thought — The 
Myths not invented as Stories, but Attempted Explanations of the Universe — 
The Mock-Homeric Poems. III. — Illustrative Extracts. IV. — The Later Epics : 
their Subjects ; their Relation to the Homeric Poems ; and their Merit. 



I. 

NATURALLY enough, the Iliad and the Odyssey have been the ob- 
ject of much indiscriminate praise, and the reverence that is their 
due has at times inspired a form of laudation which is scarcely to be dis- 
tinguished from enthusiastic worship, and admiration for the beauty of 
the poems has blinded rapturous adorers to the exact significance of some 
of the extravagant paeans. One of the commonest as well as one of the 
least warranted of these extravagant utterances is this, that Homer 
drew a perfectly happy period. Thus Mr. Frederic Harrison says : 
" In Homer alone of the poets a national life is transfigured, wholly 
beautiful, complete, and happy ; where care, doubt, decay, are as yet 
unborn." Fortunately for his fame, however, Homer did not conceive 
of the world as a place devoid of care and decay, and although this 
statement as the author made it is really only a dithyrambic expression 
of admiration and nothing more, we often find a similar incongruity 
between the text of Homer and the canticles of those who perhaps are 
readier to praise than to read him. This author goes on to say that 
the imitative writers of epics draw imaginary pictures of flawless bliss 
out of their own imagination, but Homer " paints a world which he 
saw," as if he saw a world without care, doubt and decay. In other 
words, Mr. Harrison accepts the mythical story that Homer was blind. 
Yet, in fact, this is an excellent specimen of the error that has in- 
spired Homer's would-be rivals to describe a faultless ideal world. He 
did, to be sure, paint the world he saw, and they have tried to outdo 
him by painting worlds that no one has ever seen, which should 
exceed his by their freedom from faults, but with the result that he 



THE WORLD DESCRIBED BY HOMER. 119 

survives, while they linger as men adorned with merely literary charm. 
The world that he beheld was one full of grief, disappointment, 
treachery, and the immortal charm of his portrayal lies in his recogni- 
tion and expression of this truth. Was there no care in Troy, or in 
the Grecian camp ? None in Penelope's heart as she waited for 
Odysseus? None in Odysseus as he made his weary way homeward ? 
Was there no doubt among the stalwart warriors that fought the 
immortal fight about Ilium? No decay? These questions are 
curiously answered if Mr. Harrison's statements are affirmed. When 
Homer mourned that men had dwindled so that in these degenerate 
days they could not lift the weight which the heroes swung without 
an effort ; when he described Priam's anguish at pleading with 
Achilles, or Penelope's faithful watch for her husband, it was no fan- 
tastic world he described ; we are all ready enough to decry the 
imagined inferiority of the present; and as for the other and more 
serious matters, it seems scarcely worth while to say that it is Homer's 
perception of the world that makes him great ; all the intervention of 
the gods and the impossible machinery can not mar the vividness of 
his perception of human emotions, and these emotions are made up 
of care, doubt, and decay. 

The error of this indiscriminate enthusiasm is easy to comprehend. 
We all place the Golden Age in the past, and associate with the 
chronicles of a vague early period the general inexactitude of our 
impressions ; but Homer either saw something like what he sang, or, 
as is more likely, lived when its harsh outlines were a little misty, and 
so readily lent it its air of cloudland ; yet he was not so remote from 
his object as to forego the very life of poetry, which is truth. An 
impossible land of faultless happiness would have faded like a dream. 
Homer is immortal because he wrings our heart with agony, despair, 
and doubt. He does not call upon us to sympathize with angels ; if 
he had done so, angels would have been his only readers. 

The main resemblance between the Iliad and the Odyssey is this : 
that the two, beside holding altogether the highest position in epic 
poetry, evidently belong to very nearly the same period. They both 
treat of the myths concerning the Trojan war, but as to the manner 
of treatment countless differences arise as soon as they are at all 
carefully examined. In ancient times, as indeed is still the case, the 
two poems were ascribed to the one poet, Homer, but there were 
many who found the points of difference too great for the acceptance 
of that hypothesis. Some explained this diversity on the theory that 
Homer wrote the Iliad in his youth or early maturity, and the Odyssey 
in his old age, a proposition which no longer commends itself to 
scholars. Yet the explanation, though unacceptable, points out very 



120 EPICS IN GENERAL. 

clearly the difference between the two poems. No one can read them 
without being convinced that the Odyssey is the later poem ; the 
whole tone is that of a riper civilization. The gods still interfere in 
human actions, but Olympus is no longer distracted by their quarrels ; 
the hero is not a tool of the gods, but a dependent being, who is, so to 
speak, their favorite, but not their tool. In the Odyssey, too, we observe 
a change in the growth of respect for oracles and in the maturer reflec- 
tion that frequently finds expression. There are, moreover, what we 
may call technical differences, such as the extension of the use of the 
word Hellas for the main division of Greece exclusive of the Pelo- 
ponnesus, instead of limiting it to the Thessalian home of the 
Myrmidons, as is the case in the Iliad, and in the prominence given in 
the Odyssey to Hermes, who takes the place assigned in the other 
poem to Iris. 

All of these arguments concern scholars rather than readers, who 
will demand no stronger proof than their own feelings, and especially 
is this true of that convenient figment of the imagination, the gen- 
eral reader who always thinks what the writer tells him to think. 
The likeness between the two poems is probably part of their common 
possession of the qualities of the period in which they were composed. 
In both, the vivid and direct representation of nature is a striking 
merit. Homer, first and almost alone, has seen nature, while most of 
his successors have seen it with eyes dimmed by the reading of books. 
It is in the comparisons that Homer has spoken most impressively. 
Some of these are of the utmost simplicity: "As beautiful as an im- 
mortal ; " " he fell like a tower in the raging battle ;" " they fought like 
blazing fire ; " " they were as numberless as the sands on the sea-shore 
or the leaves in the forest," etc., etc. Others again are fuller and 
more complicated ; they consist not of the single image that strikes 
the eye, but of a series, or of several distinct parts of one image that 
are combined to throw light on some human action or feeling. The 
Iliad is especially rich in comparisons of this kind ; many of them are 
taken from hunting adventures ; others from various familiar scenes 
and occupations. Thus the many accounts of battles are saved from 
monotony by the numerous vivid similes : thus, Paris shrinks back 
like the traveler before the snake ; Apollo overthrows the wall as a 
boy knocks down a sand fort; one hero slips behind the protecting 
shield of Ajax, like a child behind his mother; Achilles, when he 
sees Priam in his tent, stares at him as strangers stare at a fugitive 
murderer ; Ajax gives ground before the Trojan like the ass retreating 
before boys with sticks, etc., etc. 

In the Odyssey we find similes of a more refined sort : Penelope's 
tears at hearing the recital of her husband's woes are like melting 



THE SIMILES OF HOMER — ETHICAL QUALITIES. 121 

snow, and when the two meet, they embrace like shipwrecked per- 
sons who have escaped death ; and when Odysseus reaches the 
land of the Phaeacians, " as when children are watching the pre- 
cious life of a father, who lies sick, in pain, slowly fading away 
— for some baneful power attacks him — and the gods free from 
peril the man who is thus loved ; so precious appeared to Odys- 
seus the land and the trees." One sees the advance from direct 
vision to reflection in comparing the similes of the Odyssey with 
those of the Iliad. Homer's use of epithets also attracts the reader's 
attention ; almost every noun has its descriptive adjective ; the sea is 
continually wide ; the sword, sharp ; the lance, long ; these are the 
simplest epithets. The yoke-carrying steers, the never-resting sun, 
the silver-buckled sword, indicate more careful thought. The abundance 
of epithets that marks the poems is but one of many indications of 
the tireless ingenuity of the Greeks and of the many-sidedness of their 
minds. The same keen love of clearness that enriched their syntax is 
seen here in the simpler enumeration of the various sides of different 
objects ; the profusion of qualities that caught their attention proves 
the susceptibility of their perceptions, while the avoidance of mere 
mechanical repetition and the agreeable variety bear witness to the 
sensitiveness of their taste. The astounding brilliancy of the Greeks 
is here, as it were, in the bud, and we find it fascinated by the spec- 
tacle of the world in its newness, before literature had left its trail of 
associations over the whole face of nature. 

The moral world was known, however, more fully than the physical 
world, and the ancients drew from the Homeric poems profound 
moral instruction. They perceived the praise given to love of home, 
of family, to bravery and persistence, and drew from it courage and 
inspiration. Every accurate portrait of an individual abounds with 
moral lessons, because no man lives who is not in some ethical relation 
with his kind at every step. Every act of his concerns his neighbor 
as truly as it concerns himself ; his inaction is equally far-reaching, 
and no portrait can be drawn of him that shall not be full of moral 
teaching, however little this may be intended by the author. It is as 
impossible to escape this eternal necessity as it is to paint with the 
brush or to describe with the pen a man not in relation with the physical 
laws of the universe. In both tasks the final test is the truth with 
which the work is done, and the impressiveness of the lesson depends 
far more on the way in which the characters and incidents are repre- 
sented than on the energy with which the moral is urged. No book, 
for instance, is so full of profitable instruction as is life itself, yet the 
lessons of experience are not directly didactic, and the literature that 
avoids the inculcation of moral lessons has more influence than that 



122 EPICS IN GENERAL. 

which rests on the supposition that teaching is necessary. It is the 
same error that is made by writers who seem to think that by 
endowing their characters with more than human qualities and by 
accumulating impossible incidents, they will surely attain impressive- 
ness. But, after all, what is more impressive, more solemn, as well as 
more instructive than life? 

Homer, or what is the same thing, the early Greeks, can not be 
convicted of such a mistake. The same objection to impossibilities 
that characterized their religious feelings and kept their ideas of their 
gods within what we may call finite limits, also found expression in 
their art and literature. Formlessness and lack of bounds had no 
charm for them, indeed such qualities were something they could not 
conceive, or at least contemplate with any thing like satisfaction. 
Homer eschewed exaggeration and impossibility; here at least he is 
thoroughly secure from attack. The wealth of the material that he 
employed is less surprising than his unfailing artistic sense which 
knew only what was true. In both respects Shakspere is his only 
rival in the literature of the whole world. Nowhere else do we find 
the thorough and sympathetic comprehension of the human heart that 
marks these two great poets. Homer tells his story by representing 
the determining causes within the minds of men, by disclosing the 
secret springs within the hearts of his characters. And since he does 
this with unequaled psychological knowledge, the rivalry of those 
successors who have accumulated external incidents without real 
analysis leaves him untouched. What might be hastily judged to be 
a tale of slaughter is a deep study of human passions ; the adventures 
of Odysseus become in Homer's hands profound pictures of the 
many-sidedness of human life: he teaches great lessons without 
preaching, and the lessons, too, that every generation has to learn 
anew for itself. This quality is what gives him his eternal value. 

It is a value, it must also be remembered, that is very different from the 
quality of childishness that is sometimes ascribed to Homer. Because 
we find a frequent repetition of conventional epithets after a fashion 
that seems to betoken simplicity, it is affirmed that we have in him 
the poet of an infantile period. But the remark is perhaps mislead- 
ing, for the very conventionality of the epithets indicates an antiquity 
of petrifying custom, and is further contradicted by the ripeness of 
reflection and observation to be met with on every page. The ethical 
ripeness of the poems is in no way childlike ; the conditions of the 
civilization are those of comparative immaturity in contrast with the 
later growth of Greece and of modern times, but they indicate a long 
and important past, in which the great facts of life have appeared as 
solemn and important as they do now. If Homer were merely child- 



THE HOMERIC HYMNS. 123 

like, he would be read only in the nursery; and while many of the 
circumstances that he describes find in the young their heartiest 
admirers, his wisdom delights all, and it is a wisdom derived only 
from experience. The effort to attain it by artifice has never yet 
succeeded, any more than has the attempt to draw ideal scenes 
that shall be greater than those he knew. Yet, as we saw, his truth- 
fulness once seemed ideal to his imitators as it now does to some of 
his admirers. 

II.— THE HOMERIC HYMNS. 

Besides the two great epics that are ascribed to Homer, there are 
other much shorter poems which bear his name, being attached to it 
probably by the same attraction that ascribes all sorts of old and new 
jests to prominent wits. These consist of a collection of hymns and 
of a few shorter poems which have survived the destruction that has 
fallen on a number that were known to antiquity. It is a mere form 
to call any of these poems Homer's, even on the supposition that a 
man of that name wrote both the Iliad and the Odyssey or either of 
them ; they belong to different writers and are of very unequal merit. 
Their age is uncertain, but it is evident that they belong to a later 
period than the epics. The hymns are of the nature of introductory 
innovations composed for recitations at great meetings of the populace, 
when the bards sang in rivalry, or at the opening of religious feasts. 
They were not liturgical compositions, but rather expressions of the 
fortunate Hellenic combination of literature and religion. The gods 
are sung by the bard : Apollo, and Aphrodite at the greatest length, 
and more briefly Ares, Artemis, Athene, Here, Demeter, Hercules, 
Asklepios, the sons of Zeus, Castor and Polydeuces, Pan, Zeus, 
Hestia (the Latin Vesta), the Muses, Helios and Selene. Some 
of the short hymns are simply a brief address to the gods, with 
some description of the divinity, mention of his genealogy, or praise 
of his deeds and qualities. The longer ones, to Pan and Dionysos, are 
among the noteworthy ones, but the longest, to Apollo, Hermes, 
Aphrodite and Demeter, are the most important. The one to Apollo, 
in which scholars have detected the combination of two separate 
hymns, bears the mark of literary mannerism in the conduct of the 
various subjects of which it treats. The first part contains an account 
of the god's birth, and of the establishment of worship on the island 
of Delos ; the other part, or, more properly, the other hymn, narrates 
Apollo's establishment of the Delphian sanctuary and oracle, a fact 
that gave it more credit than its literary merit deserves. The hymn 
to Hermes reads like any thing but a devotional utterance, and 



124 THE HOMERIC HYMNS. 

the pranks of the mischievous young deity are recounted with an 
approving amusement that knows nothing of reverence. Nothing can 
be imagined further from the modern feeling than the apparent inti- 
macy with the gods that fills these hymns. The simplicity of the 



APOLLO-KALLINIKOS. 
{Belvedere.) 

writer is far removed from ribaldry as we see it in the blasphemies of, 
for example, those French writers of the last century who turned the 
Bible to ridicule ; it seems like sheer light-heartedness that inspires the 
poet. Indeed it is perfectly possible to suppose that it is a serious 
expression of religious feeling, if we remember the difference between 
the emotions that this subject produces in us moderns and those that 



ORIGIN OF THE MYTHS ; SURVIVAL OF A CRUDE AGE. 125 

appeared at all times among the Greeks. With us these are full of a 
reverential awe which is in good measure the result of Semitic influ- 
ences, while in the Greeks we continually observe a jocund compan- 
ionship with their various deities, whose escapades are narrated with 
unwearying delight and amusement, with no consciousness of irrev- 
erence or disrespect. Obviously it is difficult to suppose that sheer 
love of scandal could have contributed to the formation of a mythol- 
ogy of this sort ; it is fairer to suppose that these legends grew up in 
a state of society in which the occurrences did not arouse any other 
feeling than one of admiration for the craft or ability that they dis- 
played ; they thus prove that they grew into shape in a barbaric time, 
as the existence of a flint arrowhead proves that the metals were not 
commonly used at the time of its manufacture. In the cunning of 
Odysseus we see a survival of the admiration for an ingenious hero, 
just as some qualities of Achilles represent an early savageness — in 
neither case was there any desire to ridicule a hero — and the mythol- 
ogy is full of similar relics of the past. Hence it is possibly more 
than likely — if one may speak of the unknown with even such posi- 
tiveness — that this hymn to Hermes is a fair representation of an 
immoral period when the pranks of a deity were legitimate objects of 
admiration, just as the coarser crimes which abound in the mythology 
carried with them in early days no imputation on the excellence of 
the gods, although later these incidents became a serious stumbling- 
block. They are in fact to be regarded as traces of the anthropomor- 
phism of a savage period, when successive violence and brutality were 
admired qualities, and we should look at them not as fanciful inven- 
tions, but as crude attempts at a scientific explanation of the universe. 
What survives as romance existed as apparent fact, just as the bows 
and arrows with which early men slew their enemies and secured food 
are now the toys of children or idlers. Otherwise it is hard to see how 
the myths came into existence, especially when we reflect upon the 
difficulty of comprehending the invention of incidents discordant with 
current beliefs and feelings, and the universality of the survival in 
later times of old emotions and habits. The tender conservatism of 
religion especially preserves these memorials of antiquity, as is shown 
by the late usage of flint implements by Jews and Romans, by the 
robes of priests that make traditional and solemn the customary garb 
of the time when they were introduced, and the language and forms 
of the ritual. Indeed, a frivolous person might say that the present 
impressive attire of the Faculty of Harvard College upon days of 
ceremony is the only known instance of uninherited formality. 

In the hymn to Aphrodite, which was written quite late, we find the 
story of Aphrodite's love for Anchises, to whom she bore ^Eneas, 



126 THE HOMERIC HYMNS. 

told in a similar way, with as little modern religious feeling for the 
Greek divinities as we find in Hawthorne's " Wonder-Book." On 
the other hand, the hymn to Demeter is marked by a more serious 
tone. The subject, the rape of Persephone, indeed, required it, and 
the poet supplied it. The references to the Eleusinian mysteries lent 
solemnity to the serious cast of the poem. 




APHRODITE AND ANCHISES. 



Two mock-heroic poems were also ascribed to Homer ; one of these, 
which Aristotle believed to be the work of that poet, was the Margites, 
an amusing treatment of a foolish " simple Simon," whose feats are 
said to have been very much like those recounted in the folk-lore of 
many nations. Unfortunately only six lines of the poem have come 
down to us. The Batrachomyomachia, or the Battle of the Frogs and 
Mice, enjoyed less reputation among the Greeks than among the 
Romans, who were ready to be pleased with any thing that came to 
them from the older literature. It is a parody of the epic composi- 
tions, and while parodies often thrive when the original flourishes, this 
statement is especially true of periods when any form of composi- 



QUALITY OF THE POEMS — PARODIES OF THE EPICS. 127 

tion is the exclusive possession of a single class, and the Greek epic 
was the property of the whole people. Doubtless the poem was a 
parody of the attempts made in an uncongenial time to continue or 
to revive the outgrown epic. The artificial humour of the pom- 
pous names of the heroes, for instance, leaves the Homeric poems 
untouched. Yet the parody, unamusing as it is, has been frequently 
imitated in later times, and has done service to modern literature by 
justifying a certain amount of frivolity by means of an Homeric 
precedent. The handful of short poems that have been ascribed 
to the same writer belong to uncertain poets of an early period, 
who made use of the hexameter as the only possible form of poetical 
expression. The epic machinery controlled even the lyric verse. 
Thus the one called, " Cuma. Refusing his offer to eternize their 
state, though brought thither by the Muses " may easily be supposed 
to be the work of some later poet who had heard the old tradition. 

EXTRACTS FROM THE MINOR HOMERIC POEMS. 

III. 

To what fate hath Father Jove given o'er 

My friendless life, born ever to be poor ! 

While in my infant state he pleas'd to save me, 

Milk on my reverend mother's knees he gave me, 

In delicate and curious nursery ; 

^Eolian Smyrna, seated near the sea, 

(Of glorious empire, and whose bright sides 

Sacred Meletus' silver current glides,) 

Being native seat to me. Which, in the force 

Of far-past time, the breakers of wild horse, 

Phriconia's noble nation, girt with tow'rs ; 

Whose youth in fight put on with fiery pow'rs, 

From hence, the Muse-maids, Jove's illustrious Seed, 

Impelling me, I made impetuous speed, 

And went with them to Cuma, with intent 

T' eternize all the sacred continent 

And state of Cuma. They, in proud ascent 

From off their bench, refus'd with usage fierce 

The sacred voice which I aver is verse. 

Their follies, yet, and madness borne by me, 

Shall by some pow'r be thought on futurely, 

To wreak of him whoever, whose tongue sought 

With false impair my fall. What fate God brought 

Upon my birth I'll bear with any pain, 

But undeserv'd defame unfelt sustain. 

Nor feels my person (dear to me though poor) 

Any great lust to linger any more 

In Cuma's holy highways ; but my mind 

(No thought impair'd, for cares of any kind 

Borne in my body) rather vows to try 

The influence of any other sky, 

And spirits of people bred in any land 

Of ne'er so slender and obscure command. 



128 . THE HOMERIC HYMNS. 



FROM THE BATRACHOMYOMACHIA. 

Ent'ring the fields, first let my vows call on 

The Muses' whole quire out of Helicon 

Into my heart, for such a poem's sake, 

As lately I did in my tables take, 

And put into report upon my knees, 

A fight so fierce as might in all degrees 

Fit Mars himself and his tumultuous hand, 

Glorying to dart to th' ears of every land 

Of all the voice-divided ; and to show 

How bravely did both Frogs and Mice bestow 

In glorious fight their forces, even the deeds 

Daring to imitate of Earth's Giant Seeds. 

Thus then men. talk'd ; this seed the strife begat : 

The Mouse once dry, and 'scaped the dangerous cat, 

Drench'd in the neighbour lake her tender beard, 

To taste the sweetness of the wave it rear'd. 

The far-famed Fen-affecter, seeing him, said : 

" Ho, stranger ! What are you, and whence, that tread 

This shore of ours ? Who brought you forth ? Reply 

What truth may witness, lest I find you lie. 

If worth fruition of my love and me, 

I'll have thee home, and hospitality 

Of feast and gift, good and magnificent, 

Bestow on thee ; for all this confluent 

Resounds my royalty ; my name, the great 

In blown-up count'nances and looks of threat, 

Physignathus, adored of all Frogs here 

All their days' durance, and the empire bear 

Of all their beings ; mine own being begot 

By royal Peleus, mix'd in nuptial knot 

With fair Hydromedusa, on the bounds 

Near which Eridanus his race resounds. 

And thee mine eye makes my conceit inclined 

To reckon powerful both in form and mind, 

A sceptre-bearer, and past others far 

Advanc'd in all the fiery fights of war. 

Come then, thy race to my renown commend." 

The Mouse made answer : " Why inquires my friend ? 

For what so well know men and Deities, 

And all the wing'd affecters of the skies ? 

Psicharpax I am call'd ; Troxartes' seed, 

Surnamed the Mighty-minded. She that freed 

Mine eyes from darkness was Lichomyle, 

King Pternotroctes' daughter, showing me, 

Within an aged hovel, the young light, 

Fed me with figs and nuts, and all the height 

Of varied viands. But unfold the cause, 

Why, 'gainst similitude's most equal laws 

Observed in friendship, thou mak'st me thy friend ? 

Thy life the waters only help t' extend ; 

Mine, whatsoever men are used to eat, 

Takes part with them at shore ; their purest cheat, 

Thrice boulted, kneaded, and subdued in paste, 

In clean round kymnels, cannot be so fast 

From my approaches kept but in I eat ; 

Nor cheesecakes full of finest Indian wheat, 



BA TRA CHOM YOMA CHI A . 129 

That crusty-weeds wear, large as ladies' trains ; 

Liverings, white-skinn'd as ladies ; nor the strains 

Of press'd milk, renneted ; nor collops cut 

Fresh from the flitch ; nor junkets, such as put 

Palates divine in appetite ; nor any 

Of all men's delicates, though ne'er so many 

Their cooks devise them, who each dish see deckt 

With all the dainties all strange soils affect. 

Yet am I not so sensual to fly 

Of fields embattled the most fiery cry, 

But rush out straight, and with the first in fight 

Mix in adventure. No man with affright 

Can daunt my forces, though his body be 

Of never so immense a quantity, 

But making up, even to his bed, access, 

His fingers' ends dare with my teeth compress, 

His feet taint likewise, and so soft seize both 

They shall not taste th' impression of a tooth. 

Sweet sleep shall hold his own in every eye 

Where my tooth take his tartest liberty. 

But two there are, that always, far and near, 

Extremely still control my force with fear, 

The Cat, and Night-hawk, who much scathe confer 

On all the outways where for food I err. 

Together with the straits-still-keeping trap, 

Where lurks deceitful and set-spleen'd mishap. 

But most of all the Cat constrains my fear, 

Being ever apt t'assault me everywhere ; 

For by that hole that hope says I shall 'scape, 

At that hole ever she commits my rape. 

The best is yet, I eat no pot-herb grass, 

Nor radishes, nor coloquintidas, 

Nor still-green beets, nor parsley : which you make 

Your dainties still, that live upon the lake." 

The Frog replied : " Stranger, your boasts creep all 

Upon their bellies ; though to our lives fall 

Much more miraculous meats by lake and land, 

Jove tend'ring our lives with a twofold hand, 

Enabling us to leap ashore for food, 

And hide us straight in our retreatful flood. 

Which, if you will serve, you may prove with ease. 

I'll take you on my shoulders, which fast seize, 

If safe arrival at my house y' intend." 

He stoop'd, and thither spritely did ascend, 

Clasping his golden neck, that easy seat 

Gave to his sally, who was jocund yet, 

Seeing the safe harbours of the king so near, 

And he a swimmer so exempt from peer. 

But when he sunk into the purple wave, 

He mourn'd extremely, and did much deprave 

Unprofitable penitence ; his hair 

Tore by the roots up, labour'd for the air 

With his feet fetch'd up to his belly close ; 

His heart within him panted out repose, 

For th' insolent plight in which his state did stand ; 

Sighed bitterly, and long'd to greet the land, 

Forced by the dire need of his freezing fear. 

First, on the waters he his tail did steer, 

Like to a stern ; then drew it like an oar, 

Still praying the gods to set him safe ashore ; 



13° THE HOMERIC HYMNS. 

Yet sunk he midst the red waves more and more, 
And laid a throat out to his utmost height, 
Yet in forced speech he made his peril slight, - 
And thus his glory with his grievance strove : 
" Not in such choice state was the charge of love 
' Borne by the bull, when to the Cretan shore 
He swum Europa through the wavy roar, 
As this Frog ferries me, his pallid breast 
Bravely advancing, and his verdant crest 
(Submitted to my seat) made my support, 
Through his white waters, to his royal court." 
But on the sudden did appearance make 
An horrid spectacle, — a Water-snake 
Thrusting his freckled neck above the lake. 
Which seen to both, away Physignathus 
Dived to his deeps, as no way conscious 
Of whom he left to perish in his lake, 
But shunn'd black fate himself, and let him take 
The blackest of it ; who amidst the fen 
Swum with his breast up, hands held up in vain, 
Cried Peepe, and perish'd ; sunk the waters oft, 
And often with his sprawlings came aloft, 
Yet no way kept down death's relentless force, 
But, full of water, made an heavy corse. 
Before he perish'd yet, he threaten 'd thus : 
" Thou lurk'st not yet from Heaven, Physignathus, 
Though yet thou hid'st here, that hast cast from thee, 
As from a rock, the shipwrack'd life of me, 
Though thou thyself no better was than I, 
O worst of things, at any faculty, 
Wrastling or race. But, for thy perfidy 
In this my wrack, Jove bears a wreakful eye ; 
And to the host of Mice thou pains shalt pay, 
Past all evasion." This his life let say, 
And left him to the waters. 



And first Hypsiboas Lichenor wounded, 
Standing th' impression of the first in fight. 
His lance did in his liver's midst alight, 
Along his belly. Down he fell ; his face 
His fall on that part sway'd, and all the grace 
Of his soft hair fill'd with disgraceful dust. 
Then Troglodytes his thick javelin thrust 
In Pelion's bosom, bearing him to ground, 
Whom sad death seized ; his soul flew through his wound. 
Seutlaeus next Embasichytros slew, 
His heart through-thrusting. Then Artophagus threw 
His lance at Polyphon, and struck him quite 
Through his mid-belly ; down he fell upright, 
And from his fair limbs took his soul her flight. 
Limnocharis, beholding Polyphon 
Thus done to death, did, with as round a stone 
As that the mill turns, Troglodytes wound, 
Near his mid-neck, ere he his onset found ; 
Whose eyes sad darkness seized. Lichenor cast 
A flying dart off, and his aim so placed 
Upon Limnocharis, that sure he thought 
The wound he wish'd him ; nor untruly wrought 
The dire success ; for through his liver flew 



RIG IX OF THE HOMERIC HYMNS. 



131 



The fatal lance ; which when Crambophagus knew 
Down the deep waves near shore he, diving, fled, 
But fled not fate so ; the stern enemy fed 
Death with his life in diving ; never more 
The air he drew in ; his vermilion gore 
Stain'd all the waters, and along the shore 
He laid extended 



IV. 



While the genuineness of these minor poems was even in ancient 
times frequently doubted or denied, it was yet held that they were 
probably the work of the Homerides or successors of Homer. At 
present any absolute statement concerning their origin would be 
shunned by the prudent, except perhaps that they belong to a later 
age, a statement that does not err on the side of positiveness, 
because it is difficult to say just what the Homeric age was. As we 
shall soon see, they have for the most part but little in common with 
the poetry of Hesiod, and the same thing is true of what are called 
the cyclic poets, whose work has only come 
down to us in fragments ; indeed, only about 
sixty lines remain of all their epics. 

It is apparent that any discussion of these 
epics is, to a great extent, work in the dark. 
At one time it was held that a number of 
poets banded together for the purpose of, as 
it were, engrossing the mythical history of 
Greece in a series of epics which should cover 
the whole ground without repetition, but this 
view, according to which epic poetry was 
catalogued before it was written, is now gener- 
ally abandoned, for it has been discovered that 
the authors observed no such conditions as 
the arrangement implies, and men have become 
aware that in no conditions that can be con- 
ceived will poets agree to divide their work in 
this mechanical way. We may assume that 
even inferior epic poems are not written by the 
job. These epics were, first, the Cypria, which 
was at an early period ascribed to Homer, ( ^ w™™,/^.") 
though this was subsequently denied. How 

the poem got this title is not clear ; it has been suggested that its 
author may have come from Cyprus or else that it sang mainly of 
Aphrodite, the Cyprian goddess. Whatever the reason may have 
been, the poem recounted a great many myths, and told the story 




132 



THE HOMERIC HYMNS. 






R > 

S o 
5. 2 




of the Trojan war from its 
remote causes up to the 
tenth year of its history. 
Second, the ^Ethiopis, by 
Arctinus of Miletus, who is 
supposed to have lived at 
about the time of the first 
Olympiad (776 B. C.). It cov- 
ered the ground between 
the death of Hector and that 
of Achilles, treating of the 
advent of the Amazons and 
^Ethiopians in aid of Troy. 
The poem ended with the 
struggle for the possession 
of the arms of Achilles and 
the suicide of Ajax. Third, 
the Little Iliad, by Lesches, 
a Lesbian (about 01. 30), 
carried the recital down to 
the fall of Troy. Fourth, 
the Nostoi, in five books by 
Agias of Trazen, described 
the homeward journeys of 
the heroes, except of course 
Odysseus. Fifth, the Tele- 
gonia dealt with the adven- 
tures of Odysseus, Tele- 
machus, and of Telegonus, 
son of Odysseus and Circe. 
The poem opened with the 
burial of the suitors ; Odys- 
seus offers sacrifices to the 
nymphs and then sails away 
to Elis, to look after his 
herds, and is hospitably re- 
ceived by Polyxenus, who, at 
parting, gives him a large 
drinking-cup on which are 
represented the adventures 
of Trophonius, Agamedes 
and Augeas. After returning 



134 THE HOMERIC HYMNS. 

to Ithaca he performs the sacrifices commanded by Teiresias, and 
still following that prophet's commands, goes to the Thesprotians, 
and marries their queen, Callidice. As king of the Thesprotians 
he wages war with the Thracians, but Ares, their national god, 
protects and defeats Odysseus. Callidice dies, and, the kingdom 
descending to Polypoites, her son by Odysseus, the old Greek 
hero returns to Ithaca. Meanwhile Calypso has sent Telegonos 
— for the authorities vary as to whether Calypso or Circe was his 
mother — to seek his father. He lands in Ithaca, and as he is wandering 
through the island he meets Odysseus without recognizing him, and 
kills him. Telegonus then becomes aware of his error and carries the 
corpse to his mother, as well as Telemachus and Penelope ; she makes 
both the survivors immortal, and Telemachus takes Circe for his wife, 
and Telegonos marries Penelope. 

The confusion and weakness of the end of this epic, as well as some 
of the earlier incidents, make it clear that the author drew his inspira- 
tion from myths that had grown corrupt with time, and that we are 
far removed from the simplicity of the Homeric age. All of these 
later epic poets had the Iliad and the Odyssey before them as models, 
and they supplemented what had been omitted by the older poet, with 
undoubted zeal but with less original fire. Their work was often 
admired in antiquity. The Sack of Troy, for instance, by Arctinus, 
which contained the story of the Trojan horse and the fate of 
Laocoon, was closely followed by Virgil in the second book of the 
^Eneid ; and other epics, such as the Thebais, furnished a vast amount 
of material to the later Greek tragedians, and Ovid made liberal use of 
them all in his Metamorphoses. But of all these poems the merest 
scraps have come down to us, only enough to console us for this loss. 
If one could fill any one of the gaps in Greek literature, it would not 
be the cyclic poems that would be called for. 

While, so far as we can judge, these epics were marked by the 
pallor that often distinguishes a copy from the original, the Homeric 
poems abound with life. Their historic value cannot be determined, 
but it is hard to conceive that they should not reflect an actual civili- 
zation either existing or surviving in tradition, because otherwise they 
would have had no meaning to those who first listened to them. In 
no case could a poet, even a creative poet, as those men are called 
whose intellectual lineage is obscure, have wholly invented a degree of 
civilization very different from that which he knew from legend or by 
experience. For one thing, the words would not have existed unless 
the things themselves either existed or had existed. Thus, even the 
most original genius could never have invented castles, for instance, 
as a bit of poetical scenery, unless he had seen or heard of actual 



LIMITATIONS OF THE IMAGINATIVE FACULTY. 135 

castles. When he had done so, he might have decked them out with 
extravagant details, such as fathomless moats and cloud-hidden tow- 
ers, but the mention of the word proves the existence of the thing, 
for the imagination is closely and inevitably tethered to facts. When 
men have gone astray, as in the Indian epics, it has been only in the 
direction of magnifying familiar phenomena that they have erred ; 
they have not definitely devised anything new. The properties of 
various objects are often confused : horses fly and fish speak, but more 
than that no one can do. To expect more of men is like searching 
for a savage who uses logarithms or has invented the telephone. 
Moreover, these digressions from the truth may be instantly detected, 
but Homer has for thousands of years stood this test not only with- 
out serious loss, but with ever increasing fame for vividness and accu- 
racy. That Homer had ever seen, for example, doors of gold and 
door-posts of silver such as he speaks of in the palace of Alcinous 
may perhaps be doubted, but in describing this unknown land he only 
mentioned something that he had seen or heard of, probably the 
luxury of the Ionians, with ready amplifications. It is safe to extend 
the inference from the material to the general representation, and to 
believe that only from something like the general description of so- 
ciety could the poet have drawn inspiration for his account of the 
heroic times of Greece. This view especially impresses itself upon 
the reader when he considers how prominent are the qualities that the 
poet celebrates among the historical Greeks, as well as the corrobora- 
tion that archaeological investigation gives to his report. 

The later epics belong to the vanishing heroic period, during which 
the early civilization was transforming itself into the shape in which 
it existed when the lyric poetry began to take the place of the con- 
ventional epic. With advancing culture the early simplicity disap- 
peared, yet of the remote past we have other remains. 



CHAPTER V.— HESIOD. 

-All Our Positive Information about This Poet Most Vague — His Boeotian Origin ; 
All that This Implies in Comparison with the Ionic Civilization — The Doric 
Severity and Conservatism — The Devotion to Practical Ends. II. — The Story of 
Hesiod's Life — His " Works and Days " Described. — Its Thrifty Advice Com- 
bining Folk-lore and Farming. — The " Theogony," a Manual of Old Mythol- 
ogy — His Other Work — Its General Aridity. — Illustrative Extracts. 



WHILE the Odyssey portrays a tolerably advanced civilization such 
as we find repeated in the most flourishing period of the middle 
ages and in some eastern countries, we find Hesiod describing a very 
different state of things in a very different way. He, too, belongs to 
a remote and uncertain time, and of him as well as of Homer it is 
certain that what we know is much less than what we are told, and 
nothing but the comparative dullness of the Hesiodic poems has saved 
them from arousing as agitating a discussion as the Homeric poems 
have done, and among scholars the war has been a hot one. The 
absence of definite and trustworthy information has had the usual 
result. No sooner has one critic fixed him securely in one century 
than a more critical rival has followed and placed him a century or two 
earlier or later, so that Hesiod swings loose between the very indeter- 
minate period to which Homer is said to have belonged, or possibly a 
century later, and the seventh century B.C. At some time in this 
vague age were written the poems ascribed to Hesiod ; at least, the 
one called "Works and Days" was composed then. Hesiod was an 
^Eolian and a native of Bceotia, a part of Greece, which was a by-word 
for the dullness and stupidity of its inhabitants. The soil was fertile, 
but the air was heavy with fogs, and those who anticipated modern 
theories by crediting the atmosphere with a direct effect upon the 
intellect found in the mists a satisfactory explanation of the sluggish 
wits of the Boeotians. It is notorious that no satisfactory warrant can 
be found for many of these local prejudices which make their appear- 
ance in all countries and at all times, and are generally more long 
lived than accurate. In the Hesiodic poems, at least, we see very 
clearly marked the differences between the picturesque life of the 
Ionic race with its foothold in Asia, where it doubtless met and pro- 



THE LIFE DESCRIBED BY HESIOD. 



137 



fited by older civilizations, and the Boeotian, crowded on the mainland, 
not tempted to undertake foreign travel, content with agricultural 
prosperity and proud of their political and religious conservatism. 
Obviously the conditions in which they lived rendered them less likely 
to produce poems so full of incident and varied emotion as those that 
the Ionic branch produced. The Homeric epics bear witness to 
leisure and refinement ; the Hesiodic verse is rather that of a home- 




HESIOD. 



keeping, hard-working people, with a great deal of shrewd sense in 
worldly matters and somewhat rigid faith in religion ; for it was on 
the mainland that priestcraft established itself with the greatest 
formality. The Delphian oracle early acquired a prominence in political 
as well as religious affairs. Moreover, the political conditions were 
reflected in the religions, as is found to be always the case in our 
study of history. Thus we see Christianity forming itself into an 
ecclesiastical system after the model of Roman imperialism; and later, 
feudalism appearing in the church as well as in society, while the 



133 HESIOD. 

Reformation is the equivalent in religion of the Renaissance. It may 
not be impossible to detect a contrast between the different ways in 
which the Ionians and Dorians regarded religious questions in the 
literary remains of the two races. The Homeric poems, as we have 
seen, represented the gods almost as allies of men ; the Dorians, how- 
ever, appear to have imagined a complicated religious system bearing 
close resemblance to their political condition. Their religion was 
solemn and simple ; their myths were not preserved almost at random, 
as among the Ionians, they were worked together into a sort of 
historic relation ; they were assumed to refer to the foundation of 
some lordly house or to belong to the ritual of some deity. It was 
here that what might be called a theology first appeared, and religion 
became an important part of civilization. 

The contrast between the life portrayed in the Homeric poems and 
that which Hesiod narrated rather than sang is most vivid. Homer 
describes the chiefs, the leaders of men, possessed of all heroic quali- 
ties, while Hesiod busies himself with the humble occupation of hard- 
worked peasants bound together in simple communities, without ideals 
or indeed any other thoughts than those about subsistence and a few 
meagre holidays. The difference, as it is further portrayed, in reli- 
gion and politics, defines the distinct social conditions of the main- 
land with its conservative, undeveloped maintenance of the old tradi- 
tions of clan life, and the awakening evolution that was produced by 
foreign intercourse and varied conditions. Hesiod describes the prose 
side, as we may call it, of feudal life ; and the romantic side is sung by 
Homer, who saw only the glory and bravery of the leaders. 

In the cruder civilization the older forms of social existence were 
spreading far and fastening themselves more firmly on every condition 
of society. The rigidity of the system was making itself deeply felt. 
Young and old were closely bound together for the discharge of po- 
litical and military duties. Everywhere there was evidence of rigid 
training, which was based mainly on military gymnastics and on music 
of an orchestral kind. The main point, however, was the close union 
of people of all ages : it was, to use modern forms of expression, col- 
lectivism that prevailed among them rather than individualism, which 
is always a later growth. Their religious feelings had the solemnity 
of their political system ; even at the present day we see it in the 
simple majesty of their temples. This seriousness showed itself again 
in their language, which was marked by brevity and concision. It 
was not the charm of life that fascinated them, their attention was 
confined rather to social and political duties. Obviously, in a race 
like this, literature flourishes less than among an active people at- 
tracted in a thousand directions by the manifold charm of life. Indeed, 



SOCIAL CONDITION OF THE DORIANS. 139 

it may almost be affirmed that it is when the individual most keenly 
feels his rights and powers, that letters are most brilliant. The JEo- 
lians, of which the Dorians were in early times a single branch, pos- 
sessed many of the qualities which culminated among that race and 
some of those of the Ionians. The most important divisions of the 
^Eolians were the Boeotians, Thessalians, Elseans and the Lesbians, and 
in them all is to be noticed a curious indifference to the intellectual life 




GYMNASTIC EXERCISES. 



in the rest of the Greeks. Their early aristocratic regimen survived 
long especially among the Boeotians and Thessalians, and only the 
nobility preserved the training which was widespread among the 
Dorians. The lower classes were kept in degradation. In the 
poems of Hesiod, however, we find the simplicity of the Dorian reli- 
gion rather than the later degeneration of the ^Eolians. Many poems 
are indeed the earliest memorials of the hieratic poetry which had 
grown up in the contemplation of religious questions. In the 
Homeric poems the gods are accepted as part of the order of things 
with unquestioning simplicity, but there is a difference here which was 



14° HESIOD. 

also expressed in the profounder political interests of the people, and 
there was demanded an explanation that should satisfy a thoughtful 
people. The very different social conditions brought forth answers 
unlike those that we find expressed or implied in the Homeric poems, 
and probably such as had grown up in a distant antiquity. It is very 
clear that the Hesiodic poems contain collections from remote periods 
and possibly distant lands, such as could only have been gradually 
accumulated. To the ancients they were a storehouse of instructive 
legends concerning nature and religion ; a worldly interest was given 
them by the genealogies of lordly houses, and by the direct, Poor 
Richard, practical advice concerning husbandry. All of this is remote 
from the ethical simplicity and undidactic tone of the heroic epics, but 
it clearly marks a time when life was beginning to be complex. 

II. 

Although the time at which Hesiod lived is uncertain, a few accounts 
of his life have come down to us in his poems. According to these 
it appears that his father came from Cyme in ^Eolia and settled in 
Bceotia. The poet was born in Ascra, and in his youth he tended his 
father's sheep on Mt. Helicon, in which congenial neighborhood he 
determined to become a poet. His own version of the choice asserts 
that his mind was made up by a direct demand from the Muses, who 
appeared in person and gave him a staff of bay in token of his poetic 
functions. At a later date was acquired this art of prophesying who 
should be poets. Much nearer the general experience of. mankind is 
the mention of a lawsuit between himself and his brother Perses about 
the paternal inheritance, in which — although it is to be remembered 
that we hear only Hesiod's side — Perses gained his case by tampering 
with the judges. We are also told that at a poetical contest he won 
the prize, and he is said to have wandered about as a singer, after the 
custom that survived the decay of the epic. Further tradition says 
that he perished by violence at an advanced age. 

One mythical story that existed in antiquity was this, that once 
when-Homer and Hesiod contended for a prize it was won by Hesiod. 
The fact is now, of course, believed by no one, but it has been sup- 
posed to refer to the success of Hesiodic poetry over the older form. 

The Works and Days is the most important of the poems ascribed 
to Hesiod. It consists of but eight hundred and twenty-eight lines, 
but a great deal is compressed into this moderate compass. The first 
three hundred and eighty-three lines are rather ethical than practical: 
the poet recommends virtue in the abstract before directing its con- 
crete application. After an address to Zeus, who can easily overthrow 



PRECEPTS OF THE "WORKS AND DAYS." 141 

the haughty and exalt the humble, the poet tells his brother that there 
are two sorts of contest, one in courts of law, the other by way of 
rivalry in farming and manual labor. Shun the first, and try not 
again, by bribing the judges, to rob me of my own ; rather turn thy 
mind to honest gain. Zeus once imposed pain and toil on men, and 
because Prometheus, to make their existence easier, secretly brought 
down fire from heaven to the dwellers upon the earth, he, for a pun- 
ishment, sent down Pandora with the fateful box enclosing all mis- 
fortune. Since then pain and misery possess the world, especially in 
these present days of the fifth, the iron age, when vice, godlessness 
and injustice combine to add to the general confusion. Princes are 
like the hawk who seizes the nightingale and in answer to her outcries 
says he is the stronger, and to withstand them is but to add disgrace 
to defeat. But only that city flourishes in prosperous peace, where 
justice is dispensed to stranger and citizen; on the other hand, where 
the authorities are bribed to pronounce false judgments, Cronion 
sends plagues and pests and famine ; the race dies out, the women 
become barren, war ravages land and country, and the ships are sunk 
in the seas. Countless hosts of immortal beings, the holy messengers 
of Zeus, wander over the earth, hidden in a mist, and watch the deeds 
of men, observing whether they act justly or wickedly. Then the 
people suffer for the misdeeds of their rulers. Animals are subject 
only to the right of the stronger, but the gods have endowed man 
with the sense of justice, the most precious of his possessions. The 
road to evil, O Perses! is easy and near, but the immortal gods have 
made uprightness almost inaccessible ; the path to virtue is steep and 
hard to climb, but when you have reached the top it is easy and 
smooth. Work is agreeable to the gods and carries no disgrace ; but 
only honest gain procures lasting benefit. Beware of unkindness to 
your father and brother, to orphans and to those who claim your pro- 
tection ; pray and sacrifice to the gods with clean hands and an un- 
stained heart. Keep on good terms with friends and neighbors who 
may be of service to you : invite them to your table, and give them 
better food than they set before you. Be on your guard against the 
fascinations of your wife, for whoever confides anything to a woman, 
confides in a deceiver. Provide for sufficient but not too numerous 
descendants, who shall receive and augment your possessions. 

These few hundred lines, with their occasional exalted turn and 
their frequent utilitarianism of a kind that indicates a long experience, 
show how omnipresent are the rules of morality and prudence. The 
first step from savageness brings with it the perception of the need of 
those virtues which are almost equally rudimentary in an advanced 
civilization. The earliest records of even the least civilized races 



4 2 



HESIOD. 



abound with similar moral construction. Almost everywhere, too, 
we come across signs of a remote past, as in Hesiod's lament over 
the evil days on which he has fallen, a complaint that Homer 
frequently uttered, and in the praise of a small family. Even 
Hesiod's civilization bore signs of a long past. 

While the poet has thus established his thesis that virtue is the best 
course, and that man must work, he proceeds to make clear what sort 
of work is advisable by giving those directions which were most suited 





HAND MILLS. 



"^p^ <^^-:-^-££frs S3m ^^. 




HORSE MILLS. 



to an agricultural people like the Boeotians. He describes the differ- 
ent occupations of the year, after the fashion of a Farmers' Almanac, 
which also, it will be remembered, inculcates the most approved 
moral sentiments. First secure a house, tools, and good servants; 
you want a man without a wife, a maid-servant without children. 
Then make ready a mill, a mortar, and two plows made out of well- 
seasoned oak and elm wood, which you will cut down in the forest in 
autumn. Let a trusty man of about forty, who does not care for the 
pleasures of youth, draw the furrows with two nine-year-old steers, 
after he has eaten eight slices of bread for breakfast. The best time 



HOMELY PROVERBS OF HES10D. 



1 43 



for sowing is when the Pleiad has set for six weeks ; then the air is 
cool and the earth is softened by the frequent rains. Following the 
plow must come a boy with a hoe to spread the earth over the seed 
and protect it from the birds. Do not neglect meanwhile to invoke 
the subterranean gods, that the seed may swell properly. Thus 
arranging everything properly, you will joyously accumulate a store 
in your house and never cast envious glances at your neighbor ; he 
rather in his misfortune will envy you. But if you sow at the winter 
solstice, you will have but a meagre harvest to carry home in your 
basket. Still all years are not alike, and he who sows late may get 
even with him who sowed earliest, if he will only observe carefully 
and sow when the cuckoo first calls from the sprouting oak-leaves and 
Zeus sends three days of rain. The winter, too, is put to profit by 
the intelligent farmer. He goes swiftly by the warm inn and the 
smithy's forge, for the man who idles at the pot-house sinks into 
poverty. In good season you must warn the men to build sheds 
against the winter when the north-wind dashes up the waves and in 
the highlands scatters oaks and pines over the frozen ground. The 
cowering animals can not stand the cold ; the frost pierces their hairy 
coat and even the wild beasts seek shelter. Then the young maiden 
gladly lingers in the comfortable room with her mother. But do you 
wrap yourself up in your long cloak and cover your feet with thick hides, 
with the hair turned inside, throw a thick cape over your shoulders, 
put on your head a fur cap lined with felt to keep your ears from 
freezing when the cold north wind blows in the morning and the mist 
spreads over the fields. When the days are short and the nights are 
long, man and beast will be content with half fare, until the earth 
brings forth a new supply. Sixty 
days after the winter solstice, 
hasten to trim the vine, before the 

swallow returns. When the snail, 1,^:>1 J-JDs^kl 

in fear of the Pleiads, climbs up M^.^^f'i-^ mH\l^&- 

the young plants, sharpen your ~8| / - 

sickle for the harvest, and arouse 

your workmen from their shady M 

seats and from the morning sleep, 
for now you must be busy and 
carry the fruit home. The morn- V 

ing-hour is a third of the day and ^ 

shortens the way and the work. 
When the thistle is in bloom, 
and the cicala sends forth its shrill 
note from the leafy bower, and the heat of the dog-star weakens the 






WINE JARS FROM POMPEII. 



144 



HESIOD. 



body, then refresh yourself in the pleasant shade of the rocks with 
red wine diluted with water, with goat's-milk and the flesh of cattle 
and kids. As soon as Orion has appeared, order your men to thresh 
and winnow your corn, and collect your supply in sound vessels. When 
you have gathered the harvest, get some sturdy dogs and feed them 
well, that they may protect your property from thieves. Now you 
may let your men rest and unyoke your steers, until Orion and Sirius 
reach the zenith. Then is the time to gather your grapes. When 
this task is done, let them lie for ten days in the sun and for 
five in the shade, before you press them. When the autumn rains 
have begun to fall, carry wood to the house for your plowshare and 
for fuel. Such are the duties of the farm. But if you care to follow 

the sea, observe the proper time. 
As soon as the Pleiades have set 
and the winds have risen, haul 
your boat well up on the shore, 
and make it fast with stones ; do 
not let the rain-water lie in it to 
rot its timbers ; carry all the rig- 
ging into the house, and hang 
the sweeps and the rudder in the 
smoke. Toward the end of the 
summer, about fifty days after 
the nights have begun to grow 
long, the air is pleasant and the 
sea smooth for a voyage. Then you must make your boat ready, 
drawing it down to the water, and carefully arranging its cargo ; but 
be sure not to delay your return until the autumn winds and storms 
overtake you. The sea is also safe in the spring when the first leaves 
are sprouting on the fig. But it is always dangerous to follow the 
sea, and farming is preferable : death in the waves is a terrible thing. 
Did not men set the love of gain above life itself, no one would 
venture on the stormy sea. Consequently do not trust all your 
possessions to a boat ; keep the greater part at home : be moderate in 
all things. 

After thus giving directions for both sea and shore, the author 
returns to the consideration of domestic questions, and notably to the 
very important one of the choice of a wife. The husband must be 
not much over thirty ; the wife an honorable maiden from the neigh- 
borhood, who shall be rather under twenty. A virtuous wife is an 
inestimable treasure, but an extravagant one whitens her husband's 
hair before its time. Be true and upright to your friend ; never be the 
first to quarrel with him, and when you have fallen out with him, be 




From Thasos. 



From Rhodos. 
JARS. 



From Knidos. 



SUPERSTITIONS OF HESIOD'S POEMS. i45 

ready to make peace. Hospitality is a duty, but it must be practised 
with caution. Do not be prone to fault-finding, and reproach no one 
with his poverty. Do not despise the club-feasts ; they are pleasant 
and cheap. Then follows a medley of precepts for various incidents 
of daily life : that one must utter a propitiatory prayer before fording 
a river, that one must not pare his nails at a banquet after a sacrifice, 
etc., etc., all this part being a curious collection of folk-lore such as 
survives to-day in the prejudice against sitting down thirteen at table, 
and against spilling salt. Of the same sort is the list of the unlucky 
and lucky days of the month : thus, the eleventh is a good day for 
shearing sheep ; the twelfth for reaping corn, and the seventh is another 
very lucky day, while the fifth, on the other hand, is a very dark one. 
Blessings and curses are thus mingled for very obscure reasons. 
Sometimes we see some ground for the difference, as, for example, 
the seventeenth is a fortunate date for threshing corn, because, in one 
month, that was the feast day of Demeter ; but often no reason at all 
was given. The whole statement is interesting as a record of the 
superstitions that are probably the oldest memorials of human 
ingenuity, and are certainly the most widespread. Here at least we 
touch a chord that the Greeks had in common with every race. 
Everywhere else they were superior ; here the simplest note is 
touched, and one has an almost malicious pleasure in finding that 
race regarding these old saws and snatches of proverbial wisdom as 
little less than inspired truths. This poem became a text-book for 
schools among the later Greeks, and was held in high honor for many 
generations as an instructor in practical life, and its influence has been 
felt in modern times as the progenitor of didactic poetry, a form of 
composition that has done much to give literature a bad name as an 
artificial thing. Yet, it is only the third-hand didactic poems that are 
artificial ; the original was a natural expression of current learning 
and wisdom ; its form, the hexameter verse, was the sole instrument 
at the author's command. 

Its real modern equivalent is to be found in some of Franklin's 
Poor Richard writings and in the Old Farmer's Almanacs. Indeed 
the resemblance is very striking, because both the old Greek poem 
and the more recent books of rustic lore are made up of proverbs. 
The extracts below from the Works and Days will make this clear. 
Even the modern works of which mention has been made fail to wear 
a deeper air of hoary tradition than do the musty, humdrum bits of 
wisdom with which Hesiod decks his aged poems. They were sung by 
rhapsodists in remote antiquity, and held an exalted position as rivals 
of the Homeric lays. They were, in fact, the prose of those early 
days. Their main importance we may take to have been, not so much 



146 HESIOD. 

the utilitarian value of the advice, as the ethical dignity which under, 
lies these simple adages. And to us, while the aesthetic delight to be 
got from their perusal is small, they are of interest as the earliest utter- 
ances of men whose future development can be closely followed in 
political and literary history. They are, too, the earliest examples of 
the popular poetry of antiquity, as distinguished from the romantic. 

Yet this division of popular and romantic, it must be remembered, 
is one that is employed only for our convenience ; the poets sung in 
the way most suited to their message and their habits, with no conscious 
perception of the school to which they have been assigned by later 
critics. In Homer we have pictures of an active, warlike society, in 
Hesiod the arid representations of a peaceful, hard-working people, in 
whose hands poetry acquired all the simplicity of prose, as well as its 
more essential qualities. Yet if Hesiod fails to charm the reader who 
seeks solely aesthetic delights, he yet makes good this apparent defi- 
ciency by the aid he gives to the student of history and sociology from 
his records of an early time and people who knew no other adventures 
than those of bad weather, droughts and floods, and whose most bitter 
enemy was their unlimited superstition. 

Another famous poem that is ascribed to Hesiod, and possibly by 
its superior importance helped to keep up the authority of the Works 
and Days, is the Theogony. It is of moderate length, only 1,022 lines, 
but it was as much a sacred book among the Greeks as any that 
belongs to their bequest to posterity. Like some of the sacred books 
of other nations, it is rather a history of the beginning of the world 
and of the gods than an appeal in behalf of the religious sentiment ; 
and that the history is incomplete and fragmentary only adds to its 
likeness to the general class. The poem itself contains not only the 
earliest statement that has come down to us, but also the earliest state- 
ment known to the Greeks themselves. Just as the Works and Days 
condensed into fitting expression the practical experience that had been 
slowly amassed by many generations of tillers of the soil, and gave 
utterance to the wisdom that long attrition had worn down to proverbs 
and adages, so did the Theogony contain current myths of uncertain 
antiquity and the religious lore of centuries. 

Even in the Odyssey we find religious traditions sung by the bards, 
and it was probably from old hymns and shorter legends that the 
Theogony was able to draw the tolerably complete collection of stories 
that gave it its fame. Hesiod begins with a cosmogony. The begin- 
ning of things was chaos, the origin of which is, naturally enough, left 
obscure ; then appear the earth, Tartarus, or the nether-world, and 
Eros, the principle or god of love. Here at once we have confusion, 
in this introduction of the god among these inanimate creations, 



HESIOD' S " THEOGONYr 147 

and in the fact that no further use is made of him. In the old tradi- 
tion Eros is the principle that formed the world, but here he is thrust 
into the story and then left inactive, doubtless because Hesiod con- 
fused some of the stories that he had heard, which, however, are 
repeated by other authorities. Then follows the separation of night 
and day; the earth produces the heavens and the seas, earth, seas and 
heavens being the three immediate objects that face every human being. 
The account of the generation of the gods is much fuller, and we are 
told that the heavens and earth produced the Titans, the oldest race 
of divine beings, from whom are descended the younger race of the 
sons of Kronos, who attain power only by severe struggles. The 
genealogy of the abundant deities, which concludes with a list of the 
goddesses who selected human beings for their mates, shows a curious 
survival of a very old and barbarous theology, made up of a medley 
of lust and cruelty, that gradually lost authority with the Greeks as 
their civilization ripened. Possibly it is fair to explain some of the 
exclusive devotion of the Greeks to artistic and intellectual matters by 
the crudity of their obsolescent religious system, which left them free 
to follow the natural tendency of men towards their own individual 
development, and finally left them shattered. On the other hand, the 
grand religious conceptions of the Hebrew race were found in connec- 
tion with an almost entire absence of the qualities that adorned the 
Greeks, and has made them a firm unit in the face of every trial. We 
see again in the artistic and religious revival that accompanied the 
Renaissance how the corruption and meagreness of the religious senti- 
ment of the middle ages fell away from the men who were intoxicated 
by the discovery of antique culture, and left them free to follow their 
literary and artistic tastes, until the Reformation and the Catholic re- 
vival nipped the new civilization and greatly modified the direction of 
its growth. 

Yet these myths held a singular authority among the Greeks, as the 
earliest and in most respects the final statement of the groundwork of 
their religion. The later versions of the old stories stand very much 
under the influence of the Hesiodic theogony ; what differed from it 
failed to secure general acceptance and survived only in remote places. 
Hesiod, by collecting the abundant material and putting it into an im- 
pressive shape, secured for himself a position that corresponded with 
that which Homer won by the Iliad and Odyssey. The two names 
stand together in the obscure beginning of Greek literature, baffling 
the scholars who try to make too positive statements about their work. 
Of their great influence, however, proofs abound. Naturally many 
writings by different hands drifted to Hesiod, as many miscellaneous 
poems had gathered about Homer's name. Thus there is one called 



140 HESIOD. 

the Shield of Heracles, which bears a strong likeness to the Homeric 
description of the Shield of Achilles in the eighteenth book of the 
Iliad. It lacks, however, the merit of the original, and is made up of 
awkward imitations. Other poems that were ascribed to Hesiod have 
been lost. Some of these were probably the work of his followers, 
the same men who inserted lines of their own into such part of his 
work as came down to us. The later importance of Hesiod is not to 
be determined by the poetic quality of his work, but rather by the 
abundance of legends which he had collected from the past, and from 
his statement of the early traditions that went to the formation of his 
explanation of the universe and the story of the gods. Historians, 
poets, philosophers, were compelled to go back to him for material 
wherewith to work, and for their wants he was without a rival. 

HESIOD. 

Suffer thy foe thy table ; call thy friend 

In chief one near, for if occasion send 

Thy household use of neighbours, they undrest 

Will haste to thee, where thy allies will rest 

Till they be ready. An ill neighbour is 

A curse ; a good one is as great a bliss. 

He hath a treasure, by his fortune sign'd, 

That hath a neighbour of an honest mind. 

No loss of ox or horse a man shall bear 

Unless a wicked neighbour dwell too near. 

Just measure take of neighbours, just repay, 

The same receiv'd, and more, if more thou may, 

That, after needing, thou may'st after find 

Thy wants' supplier of as free a mind. 

Take no ill gain ; ill gain brings loss as ill, 

Aid quit with aid ; good will pay with good will. 

Give him that hath given ; him that hath not, give not ; 

Givers men give ; gifts to no givers thrive not ; 

Giving is good, rapine is deadly ill ; 

Who freely gives, though much, rejoiceth still ; 

Who ravins is so wretched, that, though small 

His first gift be, he grieves as if 'twere all. 

Little to little added, if oft done, 
In small time makes a great possession. 
Who adds to what is got, needs never fear 
That swarth-cheek'd hunger will devour his cheer ; 
Nor will it hurt a man though something more 
Than serves mere need he lays at home in store ; 
And best at home, it may go less abroad. 
If cause call forth, at home provide thy rode, 
Enough for all needs, for free spirits die 
To want, being absent from their own supply. 
Which note, I charge thee. At thy purse's height, 
And when it fights low, give thy use his freight ; 
When in the midst thou art, then check the blood ; 
Frugality at bottom is not good. 
Even with thy brother think a witness by, 
When thou would'st laugh, or converse liberally ; 
Despair hurts none beyond credulity. 



149 



FROM "WORKS AND DAYS." 

Two plows compose, to find the work at home, 

One with a share that of itself doth come 

From forth the plow's whole piece, and one set on ; 

Since so 'tis better much, for, either gone, 

With th' other thou mayest instantly impose 

Work on thy oxen. On the laurel grows, 

And on the elm, your best plow-handles ever ; 

Of oak your draught-tree ; from the maple never 

Go for your culter ; for your oxen chuse 

Two males of nine years old, for then their use 

Is most available, since their strengths are then 

Not of the weakest, and the youthful mean 

Sticks in their nerves still ; nor will these contend, 

With skittish tricks, when they the stitch should end, 

To break their plow, and leave their work undone. 

These let a youth of forty wait upon, 

Whose bread at meals in four good shivers cut, 

Eight bits in every shive ; for that man, put 

To his fit task, will see it done past talk 

With any fellow, nor will ever balk 

In any stitch he makes, but give his mind 

With care to his labour. And this man no hind 

(Though much his younger) shall his better be 

At sowing seed, and, shunning skilfully, 

Need to go over his whole work again. 

Your younger man feeds still a flying vein 

From his set task, to hold his equals chat, 

And trifles work he should be serious at. 

Take notice, then, when thou the crane shalt hear 

Aloft out of the clouds her clanges rear, 

That then she gives thee signal when to sow, 

And Winter's wrathful season doth foreshow, 

And then the man that can no oxen get, 

Or wants the season's work, his heart doth eat. 

Then feed thy oxen in the house with hay ; 

Which he that wants with ease enough will say, 

" Let me, alike, thy wain and oxen use." 

Which 'tis as easy for thee to refuse, 

And say thy oxwork then importunes much. 

He that is rich in brain will answer such : 

" Work up thyself a wagon of thine own ; 

For to the foolish borrower is not known 

That each wain asks a hundred joints of wood ; 

These things ask forecast, and thou shouldst make good 

At home before thy need so instant stood." 



BOOK II.— THE LYRIC POETRY. 



INTRODUCTORY. 

The Hexameter as an Expression Adapted to a Feudal Period, when Comparative 
Uniformity Prevailed — Changing- Circumstances, with Added Complexity of Life, 
Saw New Forms of Utterance Introduced into Literature — These, However, had 
Already Enjoyed a Long, if Unrecognized, Life among the People : Such were 
Liturgical, as well as Popular, in Their Nature, and Run Back to Primeval 
Savageness. 

WHAT we know of the poetry of Hesiod makes it clear that the hex- 
ameter had become the approved form of literary expression, even 
for verse which differed greatly from the broad flow of the early epic. 
Yet the change in the subject and manner of treatment foreboded a 
corresponding change in the manner of utterance, for a race so many- 
sided as the Greek could not fail to seek for novelty. Homer and 
Hesiod, although probably not contemporary, show us two sides of the 
shield, the noble and the democratic ; the later political modifications 
are represented in the abundant lyric poetry. Indeed, it may not be 
fanciful to see in the rule of the hexameter a reflection of the general 
uniformity of the heroic age, just as the monotony of the mediaeval 
epics represents the formal society of feudalism, or the sway of the 
heroic verse throughout Europe in the last century expresses a notable 
harmony in the general direction of thought. Around the heroic age, 
as about every period in which an aristocracy is dominant, there gath- 
ered a certain amount of conventionality ; and in such conditions 
whatever form seems best is universally adopted, because it is part of 
a system that carries the authority of the whole into every part. Thus, 
the heroic verse in England was used for philosophical poetry, for 
humorous verse, for amorous epistles, for religious discussions ; literary 
etiquette enforced this one form, as social etiquette enforced the wig, 
and among the first signs of literary revolt was the attempt to make 
use of other verse. And while every complicated form is of course 
made up of numberless crude fragments, we observe that every early 
society, all new civilization, is forced to control itself by continual 
reference to rigid rules, and that only long practice secures simplicity, 



ORIGIN OF GREEK LYRIC POETRY. 151 

just as an adult forgets the countless rules that are forever dinned into 
children. 

In Greece, with the political changes that began in the eighth cen- 
tury before Christ, we find, as we have said above, similar changes in 
the poetry. Already Hesiod, who yet makes use of the old form, 
speaks of himself, recounts his fortunate meeting with the muses, and 
speaks of his father and brother as well, while Homer's personality is 
as absent from his poems as is Shakspere's from his plays. Yet obvi- 
ously it is in the appearance of lyric poetry that the new feeling of 
individuality finds its completest expression. The very essence of a 
lyric is the personal cry, and when it began to be heard in Greek litera- 
ture the epic was sinking into the same state of artificiality that it has 
reached in the hands of some modern poets. To seek for the first 
lyric song is like seeking for the first sigh. It is obvious that mothers 
must have sung lullabies to their children, and that men and women 
must have lightened their work by song. One might as well imagine 
that the first words of infancy are a discussion of the binomial theorem 
as that the first poetic utterance of the Greeks was the smooth hexa- 
meter of the Homeric poems. Yet in them we find that none of the 
singers have any other subject than the myths belonging to the Tro- 
jan circle. Even the Sirens with their melodious voice told Odysseus 
that they knew everything that the Argives and Trojans endured in 
vast Troy by the will of the gods ; but, after all, this may be only a 
proof of another fascinating quality, their tact in choosing the subject 
which Odysseus would have been most anxious to hear celebrated, and 
possibly they varied their subject for different listeners ; otherwise they 
would surely have belied their reputation. Great and widespread as 
was the popularity of the hexameter, we must necessarily suppose that 
some other compacter style of verse was employed for stilling refrac- 
tory children. It is impossible to show that the Greek lyric poetry 
grew up from the folk-songs, but it is well to notice that the most 
usual subjects of the popular poetry were the lament and the love-song, 
as they were of the lyric verse. We do not know the measures to 
which the folk-songs were composed. The Linos song, mentioned 
above, seems to have been sung at the gathering of the grapes, and to 
have been a mournful lay for the death of the summer, which was 
personified as a beautiful youth. This form of nature-worship assumed 
various appearances in different regions ; it is closely allied with the 
lament for Adonis, that for Hyacinthus, and with the Phrygian festival 
in memory of Attis, all of which are of Asiatic origin. Homer also 
makes mention of the marriage-song or epithalamion, which appears 
to have been sung by two choruses of men and women. 

The qualities of these early forms of choral poetry carry us back to 



*5 2 



THE LYRIC POETRY. 



a remote past when bands of kinsmen, who owned all their property 
in common, took part together in all the ceremonies of life and reli- 
gion, after a fashion that still exists among North American Indians 
and other savage races. Many of these old conditions maintained 
themselves among the Greeks, and especially among the conservative 
Dorians, until a late date, such as the bands of warriors. Their survival 
in literature is apparent in their choral poetry, that depended on the 
union of song, dance, and music for its full expression ; and it was in 
this combination that its main success lay. Throughout, it was the 
state, as distinguished from the individual, that was the object of their 
enthusiasm ; their festivals were occasions of general rejoicing, combin- 




DANCING SATYR AND MAENAD OR PRIESTESS OF DIONYSUS. 



ing religious and political significance, in which groups divided by sex, 
age, and social condition took part. This tendency, inherited from 
conditions familiar to all early civilizations, became part of their liter- 
ary triumphs, as in the complicated poems of Stesichorus and his 
rivals, while it also showed itself in the rigid and complicated system 
of Pythagoras. This, however, leads us far from our present subject, 
which is concerned with the remotest antiquity. We must not let the 
literary reverence that we feel for the marvellous work of the Greeks 
blind us to its probable origin in the survival of old savage rites and 



ORIGIN OF THE LYRIC POETRY. J 53 

festivals. Our notions of literary work, which we inherit from centuries 
of artificial composition, naturally tend to persuade us that in the 
past, as later, poems took their rise anywhere except from such crude 
beginnings, and that the form is as remote as the thought from any of 
the qualities of barbarism. There is a desperate feeling that at least 
the Greeks created something out of nothing, even if the art is now 
lost. Yet the close connection between all the conventionalities, reli- 
gious and festive, of wild races, makes it clear that in the union of 
song, dance, and music of the perfected Greek choral song, we have 
the survival of old solemnities that belonged to all savage races ; that 
the famous Pyrrhic dance finds its nearest likeness in a Red Indian 
war-dance ; and that the common belief in the exclusiveness of the 
classics is not legitimately established, and cannot wholly maintain 
itself in the presence of the rapidly accumulating mass of evidence 
about uncivilized peoples. The theory of the miraculous powers of 
genius is simply a superfluous hypothesis when confronted by such 
testimony, which, however, yet fails to explain why the Greeks made 
so much out of so little. 

Besides these forms, which were almost of a liturgical character, there 
were those sung by men and women at various occupations, such as 
work in the fields, while tending their herds, pressing wine, grinding 
corn, etc., as well as lamentations at funerals, songs at the birth of 
infants, lullabies, lays of beggars — the list is endless. One of these last 
was the swallow-song, sung by boys in spring as they wandered begging 
from house to house, a custom that, we are told, owed its origin to one 
Cleobules, when there happened to be need of a general collection for 
the benefit of paupers. Another class consisted of scolia, or drinking- 
songs, which were sung at feasts. These, however, cannot be said to 
have belonged to really popular poetry, fof the privilege of sitting 
after meals and listening to songs was one that obviously belonged to 
only a few men of leisure. It is easy, however, to suppose that some 
of the best of these verses may have found their way to the common 
people. 



CHAPTER I.— THE EARLIER LYRIC POETS. 

I. — The Influence of Religion on the Early Growth of the Lyric Poetry — The Tradi- 
tional Origins : Orpheus and Musaeus — The Importance of Music — Its Condition 
in Early Times— Its Use as an Aid to Poetry — The Traditional Olympus, the 
Father of Music. II. — Callinus and the Elegy — Its Use by Archilochus, and 
the Growth of Individuality — The Value of the New Forms as Expressions of the 
Political Changes Then Appearing. III. — Simonides and His Denunciation of 
Women — His Melancholy — The Meagreness of the Lyrical Fragments Impedes 
Our Knowledge — The Extent of Our Loss Conjectured. 

I. 

WHILE the existence of song among the people is thus shown, it 
will have been noticed that many of their verses had a religious 
significance, and it is probably from the religious songs that this lyric 
poetry derived its origin. We may conjecture that at an early period 
there was no chasm between profane and religious poetry and that 
every observation of nature was the observation of a mysterious divine 
force. Throughout civilization we notice the gradual limitation of 
religion to spiritual things, and in early Greece with the attainment of 
luxury there came the representation of human life after the methods 
that had previously been employed for religious purposes. It is easy 
to see that the expression of thanksgiving to a god for a victory might 
extend to celebrating the bravery of successful warriors, and when 
Napoleon said that God was on the side of the heaviest battalions he 
uttered what mankind had long known to be true, had known indeed 
ever since war had begun. The oldest priestly poet was said to have 
been Orpheus, who carries us back to a remote connection between the 
Thracians and the Greeks. The Orphic Mysteries were a secret wor- 
ship of Dionysus, the god of wine, and they appear to have spread 
from Pieria, which lay between Thessaly and Macedonia, to the river 
Hebrus in Thrace, and later to have existed in Bceotia and the island 
Lesbos. The Thracians were in immemorial time devoted to music 
and song, so that Orpheus, the founder of the mysteries, is famous as 
a singer. Probably the celebration of the mysteries was accompanied 
by vocal and instrumental music. To Epimenides, who lived in the 
latter half of the seventh century before Christ, were ascribed various 
poems of religious import. Musaeus, on the other hand, and Eumol- 



THE RELIGIOUS POEMS — ORIGINS. 



155 



pus, as was said above, were mythical poets who belong in the chaotic 
past and are said to have carried the mysteries into Attica. To both 
were ascribed religious poems, and Musaeus bears the same mythical 
relation to the Eleusinian Mysteries that Orpheus bears to the Orphic. 
In the time of Aristophanes and of Plato these poems were regarded 
as genuine memorials of very remote antiquity, but later they lost this 
fame. Olen again had the reputation of being the earliest writer of 
hymns, which belonged from unknown times to the worship of the 
Delian Apollo. But one might as well try to draw a map of the An- 




THE DIONYSUS CHILD. 



tarctic continent as to make a history of this remote antiquity, where 
the most careful erudition of modern scholars can only grope in a 
blinding fog. It is a hopeless task to write history without facts. All 
that we can know is that religious poetry was in the hands of priests at 
a very early period. It is also known that this poetry was accom- 
panied by music. At the religious festivals there were dances, songs 
and music, games and contests of athletic skill, all being habits which 
we shall find surviving in historic times. That this blending of sacred 
and profane rites might easily lead to the extension of song and music 



i56 



THE EARLIER LYRIC POETS. 



is evident. We see a similar occurrence in the growth of the modern 
drama from the mediaeval religious mysteries. 

It is hard for us to comprehend the importance of music among the 
Greeks ; their eager and curious minds found no ancient languages or 
history or scientific work awaiting them, and the education of youth 
consisted almost entirely of physical training and of mental and moral 
instruction under the influence of music. Music was expected to be 
a valuable means of forming the character, and not a luxury, as' all 
artistic appreciation is with us moderns. The passions of the young 
were not to be awakened, but controlled, purified, and brought into 
complete harmony by this art. All the religious festivals, various as 




GODS AND PRIESTS OF THE ELEUSINIAN MYSTERIES. 
{From a Relief-Vase from Cwnce at Petersburg?) 

they were, were alike in the prominence given to music, which 
was either refining or inspiring or exciting. Such at least was the 
division made by philosophers. Just what was meant by these words 
is obscure ; all we know is that great store was set by the music, but 
exactly what the music was is lost in obscurity. With the vocal and 
instrumental music the dance was closely connected, as we shall see in 
the discussion of the Greek drama. While all this remote history was 
obscure even to those Greeks whose works have come down to us, 
many of the statements which satisfied them have proved too vague 
and evidently inaccurate to suit modern scholars. Yet it is known 



GREEK MUSICAL INSTRUMENTS. 



J57 




that the favorite instruments used were the flute, and, for strings, the 

lyre, of which last various modifi- 
cations are mentioned. The 

syrinx, or shepherd's pipe, was the 

common property of the whole 

Indo-European race. String in- 
struments were also familiar in 

the same remote antiquity as the 

flute, but it was from Phrygia 

that there came renewed impulse 

to playing the flute, and it grew 

at about the time of the first 

Olympiad to share much of the 
prominence 

of stringed instruments. The singer accom- 
panied himself on the guitar, or some instru- 
ment of that kind ; only later arose the custom 
of playing upon it without song. For obvious 
reasons, the flute was always played by another 
person than the singer, and those who performed 
on it, except in Bceotia, were foreigners ; for the 
Greeks were unwilling to play upon the instru- 
ment, because the practice compelled some dis- 
tortion of the features, and so offended this 
people with their keen love of beauty. Often 
both the flute and stringed instruments were 



DOUBLE FLUTES AND SHEPHERD'S PIPES. 



@4 

J 

J employed. 

The main use of music was to serve as an aid 
flutes. t poetry ; thus it was used first in religious 

ceremonies, and at an early date it was employed 
in connection with profane 
verse. The flute accom- 
panied the formulas of 
prayer, and in time it ac- 
companied festive songs ; 
later the flute and stringed 
instruments were used to- 
gether. Music, song, and 
dance were combined to 
accompany poetry, to 
which, however, they flutes. 

were always subordinate. 

The father of music, as Homer was the father of poetry, was Olym- 




158 THE EARLIER LYRIC POETS. 

pus, a Phrygian, who is said to have lived towards the end of the eighth 
century before Christ. This was the season when the Phrygian civili- 
zation flowered, and from that country Greece received the most im- 
portant elements of its musical culture. We read that Midas, the 
Phrygian king, received the reciters of the Homeric poems at his 
court, and the Greeks derived what they could get from their neigh- 
bors. It was as a composer for the flute that Olympus was famous. 
It was under the influence of the Phrygian music that the use of the 
flute became prominent in religious ceremonies. Thence it swiftly 
spread to profane poetry. The flute was used to accompany the elegy ; 
the iambic poetry was sung in connection with stringed instruments ; 
while the songs employed either or both. 



II. 

These divisions of the poetry that made their appearance when the 
impersonal epic was fading away were not hard and fast divisions, but 
were the various forms used almost equally by different writers. The 
elegy is simply a poem written in alternate hexameters and pentam- 
eters, each pair of which was called a distich. The origin of this form 
was long sought for by the Greeks, and they commonly named Cal- 
linus, an Ephesian poet who is said to have lived about 720 B.C., as 
its inventor. It may at least be agreed that he was the first to use this 
measure of whom any mention has come down to us. As we should 
naturally expect, in what few fragments of his work have been spared 
by time, and in what we are told about him, there are traces of the 
surviving influences of the expiring epic to match this variation of the 
familiar measure. Thus, in one of his elegies he appears to have 
treated a part of the Trojan story, and in the longest bit of his work 
that has reached us, a fragment of but twenty-one lines, we are 
reminded quite as much of the epic poetry as of the later similar 
elegies. Yet it is dangerous to build too much on so uncertain a 
foundation, for that Callinus wrote the elegy is open to grave doubt ; 
and even if the fragment of the poem attributed to him is genuine, we 
lack the earlier steps that led up to the comparatively complete form 
in which we find even the earliest elegies. 

Almost simultaneous with the date assigned to Callinus is the appear- 
ance of Archilochus, who made use of the form already employed and 
carried it to a fuller development. While Callinus may have rested on 
the earlier epic, Archilochus at least speaks out freely in his own per- 
son ; attacking his enemies and by no means sparing his own faults. 
We know that he was born in the island of Paros, and was the son of 



BEGINNINGS OF LYRIC POETRY— ARCH I LOCH US. 



159 



Telesiphos, a man of position who was deputed by the Parians to found 
a colony in Thasos. Yet Archilochus was driven by poverty to lead- 
ing a life of adventure, as a mercenary soldier and as a colonist at 
Thasos, without much profit. In Paros he was betrothed to Neobule, 
a daughter of Lycambes, who later revoked his assent to the match, 
and thus aroused the indignation of the rejected lover, who expressed 
his wrath in the most violent manner. His revengeful satires, written 
in the iambic metre, are said to have driven both Lycambes and his 
daughter to hang themselves. This statement, whether true or not, 
at least proves the bitterness of his 
attack, which the few fragments 
that survive painfully attest. Yet 
in antiquity his literary skill was 
warmly admired, and he was 
frequently placed by the side of 
Homer as an early and wonderful 
poet, although, on the other hand, 
some condemned his asperity. 
What the Greeks felt was gratitude 
to the man who first spoke out what 
was in his soul, thus indicating 
the way in which their literature 
was to attain its highest triumph. 
The change from the vagueness of 
the obsolescent epic to the expres- 
sion of personal feeling was like 
that which men felt at the end of 
the last century when the romantic 
poets turned their backs on philo- 
sophic and didactic verse and gave 
utterance to their own emotions, 
their hopes and fears. In the few 
bits that eluded the timidity of the 
monks who were repelled by the 

coarseness of Archilochus, we see what was destined to be the great 
charm of the lyric poetry of Greece — its absolute directness. The 
light came directly from the poet's heart ; in modern times it is 
too often refracted by passing through foreign culture. Bums in 
Scotland and Gunther in Germany almost alone among modern 
poets speak with the classic directness. And as they both were 
the perfected representations of forgotten predecessors, it is impossible 
for us to believe that Archilochus had not the work of earlier men 
behind him, by whom the measures that he used were brought to 




ARCHILOCHUS. 



160 THE EARLIER LYRIC POETS. 

something like his vigor. His undoubted coarseness is more like a 
survival of original savagery than an invention of his own, if, indeed, a 
man ever invents any thing. Certainly this hypothesis is more tenable 
than the contrary one, that he devised the various measures which he 
handled with such uniform skill. His satires, hymns, none of which 
have reached us, elegiacs, etc., show his versatility, and in some of the 
fragments we find abundant evidence of the intensity and the appro- 
priate expression of his feelings. In the variety and acerbity of his 
poems we see reflected the confusion of his times, when a restless spirit 
was impelling the Greeks to found new colonies and there was a gen- 
eral severing of older ties. 

The following translation, with a few extracts given below, will show 
what we know of his qualities : 

Oh ! heart, my heart, see thou yield not, but bear 

Thyself unflinchingly before the foe, 

With breast held firm to meet the hostile spear. 

Then, if thou conquer, joy not overloud ; 

Nor, if thou'rt vanquished, shalt thou seek thy home. 

Express thy joy but with a modest voice ; 

And sink, o'erwhelmed with grief, upon the ground ; 

Nor be unseemly with thy woe o'ercome, 

But measure in thy joy and grief be found. 

It may, indeed, be asserted that every time of political change is 
accompanied by an overhauling of the current literary methods, not 
necessarily as a result, but as a simultaneous product of men's altering 
opinions and feelings. The equable, placid artistic beauty of the 
Homeric poems is as unmistakably an indication of a period of polit- 
ical repose as is a wheat-field of the existence of agriculture ; and the 
nature of the early civilization of the heroic times may be gathered 
from the glory that is cast upon the brave leaders and the insignificance 
of common men. We see an aristocracy rejoicing in its best qualities, 
and yet undisturbed by popular revolution, quite as distinctly as we 
see in Pope's poems the social importance of men of education and 
refinement, or the general content that characterized the middle ages 
in the epics of that periodo At the first dawn of Greek civilization, as 
we see it reflected in Homer, the king ruled by divine right, without 
question ; this submission, however, gave way to indifference, which 
was in time followed by antipathy, and at the period when the posses- 
sion of power was sought by an oligarchy or contested by despots we 
find the literature expressing, not merely excited political or martial 
feeling, but also the new importance of the individual, as we see it 
again finding utterance at the beginning of the Renaissance after the 
long reign of the middle ages, during which men had drawn types 



POLITICAL CONDITIONS REFLECTED IN THE POEMS. 161 

rather than characters in their poetry, as they had done in their painting ; 
for portraiture, it will be remembered, only began with the Renaissance. 
A similar change occurred with the outbreak of the Romantic revival 
towards the end of the last century, when the representation of man 
in the abstract gave way to the more vivid delineation of intenser per- 
sonal feeling. And, since politics and letters are but part of human 
interest, we may see elsewhere indications of similar change in the 
new advance of colonization and the making over of mercantile condi- 
tions at both of these important eras, as we see it in the geographical 
reconstruction of Greece at the expiration of the heroic age. While 
these lie outside of our attention, the changes in the music and mea- 
sures that accompanied this development of Grecian life find their 
diminished counterpart in modern times. The growth of the elegiac 
metre, the use of anapaetic and iambic metres, as well as the musical 
variations, all of which came into prominence at this time, were the 
natural expression of the general change, and are such as invariably 
accompany a period of revolution. 



III. 

Simonides, the son of Crines, of Samos, who carried a colony to the 
island of Amorgos, belongs to this list of early lyric poets. He wrote 
two books of elegies treating of Samian archaeology, which have not 
come down to us. What we have of his work consists of some 
fragments of his iambics in the Ionic dialect, all but two being 
mere scraps. One of these, consisting of one hundred and eighteen 
lines, treats of the usual subject of the satirist, the faults of women, 
after a fashion that recalls Hesiod, very much as Archilochus recalls 
Homer. 

When the world was created, woman was lacking, but soon she ap- 
peared and was endowed with various qualities of animals and inani- 
mate things : one has those of the fox ; another of the dog, and never 
holds her peace; a third of clay; the next of the sea, and is conse- 
quently changeable. One, however, is sprung from the bee, and from 
this industrious ancestry inherits a few attractive domestic qualities. 
This artificial genealogy bears all the marks of antiquity, and already 
Hesiod in the Theogony had compared the idle and pleasure-seeking 
women to the drones of the hive. This semi-facetious denunciation of 
the female sex was then already classic, and it acquired added charm, 
not merely from the new form in which it was expressed, but from its 
keener application to the modified society of these later days. In the 
heroic age the position of women had been a tolerably exalted one ; 



SATIRES UPON WOMEN— MISERY OE THE WORLD. 163 

but now they had lost that, and had become subordinate to the men, 
and had thereby become exposed to abuse, for no one ever lived who 
praised his slaves. They now began to be regarded in some quarters 
as the original cause of all misfortune, as necessary evils, and conse- 
quently as legitimate objects of satire and malevolence. This opinion 
was not universal, however; for although among the Ionians the cus- 
tom grew, spreading among them, perhaps, from their oriental neigh- 
bors, of shutting up the women in their separate quarters, and the 
Dorians kept them under somewhat strict control, the yEolians, on the 
other hand, allowed them greater freedom, and, as we shall see, some 
of the richest gems of lyric verse were composed by women of that 
race, as well as of the Doric, while there are no women poets among 
the Ionians. 

The other fragment of Simonides is a melancholy expression of the 
misery of the world, another subject almost as trite as the manifold 
faults of women. This wail is uttered in a didactic poem addressed to 
his son, in which the worn father tries to convey some of the lessons 
of life, and to show the emptiness of all things, that all effort is vain, 
and the world is wholly bad. In short, Simonides is far from being 
an optimist. What we notice in him is rather the instructive, didactic 
tone of his writings, which is very different from the personal feeling 
and noteworthy vigor of Archilochus. A few other scattered frag- 
ments also convey the same impression. And it must be remembered 
in the consideration of all these lyric poets that we have to judge of 
nearly all from the smallest amount of testimony, for what is left is 
but the meagrest proportion of what existed. For centuries every 
feast in every city of Greece and its many colonies was celebrated in 
song; and this abundant production was but part ; for what we may 
call the unofficial poetry, that which was expressive of the writer's 
own feelings and emotions, was quite as great in quantity. Much of 
it was naturally of only temporary interest and soon fell out of sight, 
especially when the later forms of composition, and especially the 
drama, became its successful rival. The lyric poetry may be said to 
have enjoyed unbroken popularity until about the beginning of the 
Peloponnesian War, and then to have lost ground. Much had been 
lost when the Alexandrian critics began to collect and edit the work of 
the earlier time, yet the amount that existed was enormous. Seneca 
tells us that Cicero said that, if he were to live two lives, he should be 
unable to read all the Greek lyric poets. While the Romans read the 
lyrics, they preferred the Alexandrian elegies, which have shared the 
same fate, and what was once an enormous collection is now scarcely 
more than a mass of ruins, and for chance lines we are often indebted 
to the wish of some grammarian to show us some rare or noteworthy 



164 THE EARLIER LYRIC POETS. 

use of some phrase or word. Those who have survived most com- 
pletely owe their escape from annihilation to the employment of their 
writings as text-books for children or to some lucky chance. Hosts of 
names are gone beyond all chance of recovery; only of Theognis and 
Pindar have we anything like a full text. 




<f s 
WOMEN CRUSHING CORN. 



CHAPTER IL— THE LYRIC POETS [Continued). 

I. — Tyrtaeus, and His Patriotic Songs in Behalf of Sparta — In Contrast, the Amorous 
Wail of Mimnermus —Solon in Athens, as a Law-giver, and as a Writer of Elegies 
Mainly of Political Import. II. — The Melic Poetry, and its Connection with 
Music and Dance — The Growth of Music ; the Different Divisions — Alcman, 
Alcaeus, Sappho, Erinna, Stesichorus, Ibycus — Anacreon, and His Vast Popular- 
ity. III. — The Elegiac Poetry — Phocylides and His Inculcation of Reasonable- 
ness — Xenophanes and His Philosophical Exposition — Theognis and His Polit- 
ical Teachings — Simonides, His Longer Poems and His Epigrams — Bacchylides, 
Lasus, Myitis, and the Predecessors of Pindar — Translations of Some Lyrical 
Poems. 

I. 

THE variety of the subjects treated was very great. Ardent patriot- 
ism finds utterance in the work of Tyrtaeus, son of Archembrotus, 
who flourished in Sparta about 680 B.C. He was by birth an Athenian, 
and was invited to Sparta, so the story runs, in accordance with the 
command of the Delphian oracle at the time of the second Messenian 
war, for in Sparta the arts of refinement were so little cultivated that 
the country was obliged to import its poets, just as England and Amer- 
ica get their musicians from Germany. Tyrtaeus at once received 
the right of citizenship, and devoted his talents to the service of his 
adopted home. Before his arrival, the war had been more than uncer- 
tain ; the Spartans had suffered many defeats, but Tyrtaeus took 
charge of their forces and led them to victory. This was not his only 
service ; besides winning fame as a general, he composed elegies and 
lyrical war-songs that filled the Spartans with patriotic enthusiasm. 
The elegies bore a great likeness to what is ascribed to Callinus, 
so much so, indeed, that the later poet has been credited with the long 
elegy of his predecessor. They are earnest appeals to the bravery of 
the Spartans ; their main subject is a simple one — the glory of death 
for one's country. To die in the van fighting for home is the happiest 
fate that can befall a brave man. With this, in the first elegy, he com- 
pares the wretched existence of the coward who escapes and begs his 
bread from door to door, with father, mother, wife, and children. Such 
a man knows only misery ; he never receives respect, pity, or honor ; 
hence let us fight for our country, our children, our wives; let us not 
fear to die ! 



1 66 THE LYRIC POETS. 

Let no one take flight ! Especially let no young man run away. 
Those advanced in years may retreat, but it is disgraceful if an older 
man lies dead before a younger one, if the gray-haired veteran breathes 
his last in the dust. As Campbell translates it : 

" Leave not our sires to stem the unequal fight, 
Whose limbs are nerved no more with buoyant might ; 
Nor, lagging backward, let the younger breast 
Permit the man of age (a sight unblest) 
To welter in the combat's foremost thrust, 
His hoary head dishevelled in the dust, 
And venerable bosom bleeding bare. 
But youth's fair form, though fallen, is ever fair, 
And beautiful in death the boy appears, 
The hero boy, that dies in blooming years : 
In man's regret he lives, and woman's tears ; 
More sacred than in life, and lovelier far, 
For having perished in the front of war." 

This exaltation of the immortal beauty of the youth dead in battle 
is a peculiarly Greek touch, and it had appeared in Homer. Callinus, 
too, had already said that a hero, when he died, left the whole people 
to mourn him, and, living, is likened to the demigods; but here, for 
Campbell's version alters the Greek directness, the youth who, when 
living, is admired by men and loved by women, is beautiful even fall- 
ing in the foremost line. 

In the next elegy, once more the Spartans are urged to bravery, and 
the exact method of fighting is described. He mentions, too, the vary- 
ing fortunes of the Spartan armies, now victorious, now beaten. 

The third elegy celebrates the importance of bravery, and the insig- 
nificance of every other form of merit in comparison with it. Strength, 
speed, beauty, wealth, power, eloquence, fame of any other kind, are 
as nothing if the man have not bravery, if he be not bold in fight, and 
dare not look grim death in the eye, and do not aim at the opposing 
foe. This is virtue, this is the highest gain for man, an honor for him 
and a blessing for the city and all its inhabitants, when a man stands 
firm in the foremost rank and thinks not of flight. If he falls, he and 
his whole race become famous ; if he survives, he receives every 
honor. 

Tyrtseusalso wrote a political elegy, the Eunomia, or Sound Govern- 
ment, as we may call it, of which unfortunately only little is left us, 
the longest fragment consisting of only ten lines. It seems from these 
to have been a historical sketch of the past of the Spartan state, and 
to have contained much political instruction for the time at which it 
was written, about the 35th Olympiad. The author's aim was to 
encourage the firmness of the Spartans by recounting their early 



MAR TIAL VERSE OF TYR TsE US—L O VE- SONGS OF MIMNERMUS. 1 6 7 

struggles and glories and the varying fortunes of their war with the 
Messenians. It is much to be regretted that we have not the whole 
poem, which was perhaps the very first in which historical description 
and political reflection found expression in Greek literature. There was 
this advantage for Sparta in having no literary past, that Tyrtaeus had 
free ground in which to work. 

One other form of composition that he employed was that of martial 
songs. The Spartans had for a long time charged in battle with the 
accompaniment of music ; later they had used songs adapted to these 
melodies, and it was songs of this sort that Tyrtaeus wrote. The long- 
est fragment ran something like this : 

March on, ye soldiers of Sparta, 

Ye children of noble fathers, 

On your left arm holding your shields, 

Swinging your lances with boldness, 

Without regard for your lives, 

For such is the custom in Sparta. 

Very different from the patriotic vigor of Tyrtaeus is the pensive, 
amorous strain of Mimnermus of Colophon in Ionia, who flourished a 
very little later than the Spartan poet. In the Ionic colonies life was 
easy and sweet ; they were the home of luxury and refinement, and in 
the absence of political independence-for Colophon had fallen under 
Lydian control-men's minds naturally turned to the enjoyment of the 
present. Mimnermus is said to have been a flute-player, and thus to 
have been naturally led to elegiac composition ; his method was 
determined by the interests of his surroundings. It is said that the 
inspiration of his poetry was his love for the female flute-player 
Nanno, and his poems about her were a model for the later writers 
of love-songs. He was regarded as the originator of the love-elegy, 
but too little of his work is left to enable us to decide about the 
method of his treatment. In the fragments that remain we find his 
constant lamentations over the brevity of youth. He bids his hearers 
to gather rosebuds while they may, to make the best use of their 
short playing-time, for the gods grant no return of strength and youth. 
Certainly no contrast is more vivid than that between Tyrtaeus's com- 
mand to the young to die in battle and Mimnermus's soft injunctions 
to them to make the most of their tender years and to enjoy all the 
pleasures that life can give. What Mimnermus denounces is not cow- 
ardice, but simply old age — he must have been well on in years when 
he wrote, for youth is sweetest when it is gone ; the young know its 
bitterness too well — and he chose his sixtieth year as the age at which 
he wished to die. Doubtless he lived to be much older. 

Mimnermus did not confine himself to these lighter subjects, how- 



1 68 THE LYRIC POETS. 

ever ; he wrote also about the establishment of the Ionic colonies on 
the coast of Asia Minor and of their struggles with their neighbors, 
but it was the expression of his own feelings that gave him his name. 

Just as the poems of Tyrtaeus make clear to us the affairs of Sparta 
at the time of the second Messenian War, and those of Mimnermus 
expose the voluptuousness of the Ionic colonies, so do those of their 
contemporary, Solon, throw light upon an important part of Athenian 
history, and afford us the first example of Athenian literature. While 
Sparta was contesting for military supremacy, and colonies in Asia 
Minor were declining into oriental luxury, Athens was laying the foun- 
dations of its future political and intellectual supremacy. Here, how- 
ever, as elsewhere, we regret the meagreness of the material that is 
left to us, and while we have of Solon much more than of both the 
others, it is true, as Grote has said, that " there is hardly anything more 
to be deplored amid the lost treasures of the Grecian mind than the 
poems of Solon ; for we see by the remaining fragments that they 
contained notices of the public and social phenomena before him, 
which he was compelled attentively to study, blended with the touch- 
ing expression of his own personal feelings in the post, alike honor- 
able and difficult, to which the confidence of his countrymen had 
exalted him." Solon was above all things a statesman who conveyed 
political instruction through his elegies, and his importance to the 
Athenian state is well known ; it was not a matter of indifference to 
him who made the laws if he made the songs. He was born at about 
the time of the 35th Olympiad, of a good family; but poverty 
fortunately compelled him to travel about on business, and his roving 
life brought him into communication with the most celebrated men of 
his day. When he returned to Athens, he made himself conspicuous 
by his efforts to recover Salamis, for so long as that island remained 
in the possession of Megara it was impossible for Athens to develop 
into a seaport. Plutarch tells us that the Athenians forbade any 
renewal of the proposal to capture Salamis, but that Solon, in his 
indignation, pretended to be mad, and, appearing suddenly in the 
market-place, recited his elegy on Salamis to a great concourse of the 
people ; of this poem but a few lines have been spared, wherein he 
bids his fellow-citizens to rise and fight for the lovely isle of Salamis. 
The success of this ruse made him conspicuous ; but his fame was 
most firmly established when he was made archon, and granted extra- 
ordinary powers for the revision of the Athenian constitution. It was 
during his lifetime, and in great measure as a result of his intelligent 
direction, that the foundations of the future greatness of Athens were 
laid. What especially concerns us here is the reflection of his political 
wisdom in his poetry, which was the vehicle he chose for the expression 



SOLON'S PRINCIPLE S— RICHES. 169 

of his solicitude for his countrymen. What we notice is his temper- 
ate wisdom. Without partisanship he directed the hot political inter- 
ests of the Athenians, holding a middle course between the aristocratic 
and radical extremes, yet not allying himself with the intermediate 
party, and securing the respect of all. He seems, too, to have perceived 
the impotence of laws that did not rest upon the deliberate decision 
of the people ; and, like the other seven sages, as they were called, he 
did his best to establish a sound ethical core in the hearts of his 
countrymen. Thus in the longest piece of his work, the only one that 
has reached us in a complete form, he begins with the wish that Zeus and 
the Muses will hear his prayers, and grant him blessings and happiness 
from the gods and reputation among men. Then he goes on to say 
that only what is honestly acquired is of benefit, that unholy earnings 
remain for but a short time. Even if the divine Nemesis seems to 
delay or to overlook wrong-doing, it is sure to overtake the evil-doer at 
last, and although he may himself escape, his children or his children's 
children will suffer. " Zeus seeth all things, and like a wind scattering 
the clouds, which shakes the deep places of the tumultuous sea and 
rages over the fertile land, and rises at last to heaven, the home of the 
gods, and makes the sky clear, whereupon the sun bursts forth in glory, 
and the clouds are gone — such is the vengeance of Zeus." Let no one 
then judge from the present alone or indulge in foolish hopes. Yet 
such is human nature ; the coward deems himself a hero ; the ill- 
favored imagines that he is beautiful. Whatever a man's occupation 
— and Solon gives a line or two, to describing the diverse occupations 
of his contemporaries: the mariner, the husbandman, the artisan, the 
seer, the physician — the issue lies in the hands of the gods; all our 
pains may be of no avail, and our foolish actions may bring us rich 
reward. The elegy then concludes with saying that all our efforts are 
for wealth, which is often ruinous, and we blindly overlook the perils 
with which Zeus has involved its possession. 

This lesson, which is as true and as necessary here to-day as it was 
in Greece six centuries before Christ, is one that other thoughtful 
teachers there, as elsewhere, have never been tired of preaching to men 
who have seen in wealth the one great power of the world. In the 
case of Solon it had a genuine significance, and was far from being the 
wail of a hopelessly impoverished moralist whose denunciation of 
riches is mere regret for their absence ; he had modified the constitu- 
tion by substituting property for birth as the basis of representation, 
and thus he recognized and approved the new importance of material 
prosperity ; but he sought to control it and to keep it subordinate to 
uprightness. There is scarcely one of the sages who does not denounce 
ill-gotten gain. Theognis expressed the same sentiments and foretold 



17° THE LYRIC POETS. 

the sure, though possibly delayed, wrath of Zeus. He who acquires 
wealth honorably will keep it ; he who grows rich by injustice or 
covetousness, though at first it may seem to be of advantage, will 
find it turn to ashes. Men are deceived, however, because the gods 
do not always punish the crime the moment that it is committed ; 
one man pays in person, another leaves misfortune to fall upon his 
children, a third escapes justice by death. 

This utterance regarding the certainty of punishment is something 
that all mankind has at all times been ready to see, at least with regard 
to others' sins ; it is a frequent saying in early Chinese literature ; 
among the Asiatics it became the main principle of Buddhism, which 
established a rigid debit and credit account of human actions, and is 
now among civilized races, under the guise of heredity, receiving 
careful scientific examination, such as awaits every human thought 
and action. To the more thoughtful Greeks of this time the vicissi- 
tudes of life appeared to be the direct acts of jealous and revengeful 
deities. Life was above all things uncertain, " No mortal is wholly 
happy, all upon whom the sun shines are wretched," Solon said, Yet 
although the wicked flourish and the upright suffer, we would not ex- 
change with them, or barter virtue for wealth, for virtue is a lasting 
possession, and wealth slips from one man to another. Elsewhere he 
says that the man with much silver and gold, and who owns large 
estates, is no richer than he who has just enough, for no one can take 
his superfluous wealth to the grave or buy exemption from death, dis- 
ease, or old age. In all of these poems we notice the pensiveness of 
a man who sees the complexity of life. 

Much of his poetry is devoted to conveying sound political instruc- 
tion ; thus in an elegy on Athens, in which he begins by declaring that 
city to be under the special charge of the gods, and that Pallas will 
never desert it, he goes on to show how the citizens alone can accom- 
plish its ruin by their misdeeds, and he ends by warning them to 
abandon evil ways and to seek righteousness. Other fragments teach 
the same lesson. 

In general what we have left of the work of Solon, incomplete as it 
is, indicates the turmoil of change and the introduction of new condi- 
tions of life. The city of Athens as we see it portrayed in his elegies, 
presents a picture of factional disturbance which had to be allayed 
and unified by tyranny and foreign war. The strong rule of the 
tyrants had its good results in their encouragement of art and letters, 
and in Solon's manly utterances we may detect an early indication of 
the warlike spirit which was afterwards to do so much for Greece. In 
the awkwardness of his execution we may notice the lingering of old 
conditions that had been outgrown elsewhere, for literary movements 



MEL 1C POETK Y : SPE CIFIC CHA RA C TERIS TICS. I 7 I 

are as irregular as isothermal lines, and the freedom of the Athenians 
protected them from the overripe cultivation that is expressed by 
Mimnermus and others. 

Indeed, the study of these bits of the early Athenian literature suf- 
fices to show that here at least the whole force of the people was some- 
thing that awaited a later time to show its full development. Its very 
crudity is capable of indicating promise ; the perfect possession of lit- 
erary powers might have foretold decay rather than greater perform- 
ance. 

While the elegy had thus been growing up in various parts of Greece, 
especially in the Ionic colonies and in Athens, what was called the 
me lie poetry had begun and advanced to equal importance among the 
Doric races. To define melic poetry as lyric would not be exact, be- 
cause it would omit an important component of the melic verse, to 
wit, its relation to music. As matters stand, we have but a mere 
fragment left from which to construct one of the most important parts 
of Greek literature, and it would be exactly as possible to reconstruct a 
modern opera from the text as it is for us to form a definite notion of 
the melic poetry from the scraps of verse that alone survive. Of 
Pindar alone do we possess a tolerably complete collection, but what 
we have of his work is far from covering the whole ground, for there 
were many developments of this form of composition which he did 
not touch. The great variety of the melic poetry expressed countless 
individual and local differences, yet^unlike modern lyric poetry, it was 
not primarily an expression of personal feeling for which the poet 
could choose whatever form of utterance best suited him ; it was not a 
modification of popular poetry, as we understand the phrase, but 
rather the secularization of forms that were connected with religious 
pomp and ceremony, from which poets derived a good part of their 
models. The epic modulated itself into the elegy, the descriptive 
parts of the earlier verse falling away in favor of the personal utter- 
ances, after a fashion which we see going on about us in the modern 
epic, the novel, wherein description holds every year a less important 
place than the study of character, a change from the general to the 
particular which is an inevitable accompaniment of every form of 
growth. The iambic verse, as we see it in Archilochus, remained most 
completely the favorite method of expression for ridicule or discussion, 
and although it was accompanied by music, the author and composer 
were different persons. This form, which became the dramatic as dis- 
tinguished from the choral part of the plays, never attained among 
the Greeks the general importance of the melic poetry. In this form 
the three arts of music, poetry, and dance were combined in an impres- 
sive whole. The contests in gymnastics, song, and dance were held 



H 2 THE LYRIC POETS. 

under religious auspices, and maintained their solemnity and impor- 
tance by the speedy adaptations of what was already established in 
the sacred rites. These ceremonies thus rendered great service to 
what speedily became an important part of the literary development. 
It is this close connection between the words and the music which is 
lost for us. The various festal occasions encouraged the growth of 
orchestral dancing in Sparta, where the musical and poetic impulse 
was slighter than elsewhere, so that these two aids to the delight of 
men were brought in by Terpander of Lesbos, who introduced the 
seven-string harp in the place of an inferior instrument. In poetry he 
further developed the already existing nomos, or hieratic poem, into a 
more complicated form, which he accompanied with music. He had 
various successors, Kapion, Clonas, Polymnestus, Sakadas, and 
Echembrotus, whose names are about all that we know of them. The 
next step w T as the growth of the paean, which was distinguished from 
the nomos by being sung by a chorus instead of a single performer. 
The nomos consisted mainly of hexameters, singly or in combination 
with the pentameter ; now we find more complex forms. It was in the 
hands of Thaletas that this change seems to have taken place. His 
date was about the 28th Olympiad, and some of the modifi- 
cations which he wrought were already familiar in his home, the island 
of Crete. Xenodamus and Xenopritos are the names of two of his 
successors. A third was Alcman, of whom alone fragments have 
reached us, but what fragments ! They are almost without exception 
nothing but the merest scraps that owe their preservation to the fact 
that a line here or a line there was quoted by some grammarian in 
later times to illustrate some matter of which he happened to be treat- 
ing. It was from these widely scattered sources that the industry of 
modern editors has rescued many of the most valuable of the gems of 
Greek literature. Yet just where we want more we have but a few 
words, only fortunate in that any thing is spared to us. The bits of 
Alcman are marked with extreme simplicity; thus he says: "And 
created three seasons, summer, winter and autumn, and the fourth was 
spring, when everything blooms, but there is not enough to eat," a 
touch that describes the period of the year before the new crops are 
gathered with more vividness than do purely picturesque epithets. 
Elsewhere, he says that he is contented with simple fare, such as the 
common people eat. Indeed, he is fond of talking about himself; he 
boasts that he is no rustic boor, no Thessalian, but that he is sprung from 
lofty Sardis. The odd lines that belong to him attest great variety 
in the use of metres, which, however, are naturally less complicated 
than those of later times. He was the first of what may be called 
the classic lyric poets, and for more than two centuries his work 



174 THE LYRIC POETS. 

lived in the memory of the Greeks ; and even when his fame was 
diminished by new candidates for the popular favor he was by no 
means forgotten. One of the few fragments of any length may be 
read in the following translation : 



" Stillness upon the mountain-heads and deep abysses, 

The cliffs of ocean and each gloomy cave ; 
And quiet reigns throughout the craggy forests, 

Where fiercest, wildest beasts are wont to rave ! 
All living things upon this dark earth nourished, 

Even the swarms of busy bees, are still ; 
In purple depths of ocean sleep sea-monsters, 

And merry winged birds forget to trill." 



Certainly one does not associate verse of this sort with ancient 
Sparta ; yet even Sparta was a part of Greece, and after its success 
in the Messenian War it enjoyed a short breathing-time, in which it 
saw that life had other charms than perpetual military drill. But 
its flowering time was short, and probably the tender touches of 
Alcman soon sank into insignificance by the side of the martial spirit 
of Tyrtaeus. Poetry soon sought another home outside of Sparta. 

Of Arion we know scarcely more than that our knowledge of him 
is very scanty. He is said to have perfected the dithyramb, a song in 
honor of Dionysus, but his work, like that of the contemporaries of 
Alcman, has long since perished. 

While the Dorians had thus been developing the melic poetry, it 
has been shown that they derived the impetus from without. Terpan- 
der came from Lesbos, and it was in this island that the art now 
reached its highest perfection. Mitylene, the principal city of Lesbos, 
had attained considerable importance by its commerce, and with wealth 
there had come the opportunity for intellectual 
growth. It was under these favoring conditions 
that the melic poetry of the Lesbians flourished. 
The two important names are those of Alcaeus 
and Sappho, who were contemporaries of Solon. 
In the work of Alcaeus we see reflected the 
distracted political condition of the island ; he 
was an adherent of the nobles, who were in con- 
alc^eus. flict with the populace, and at first an admirer of 

{Lesbian Coin.) r r ' . • 

Pittacus, who afterwards seized the reins of gov- 
ernment and won the poet's hatred. Alcaeus was banished, but after- 
wards, although he took up arms against the tyrant, he was forgiven, and 
was permitted to return to Lesbos, where he became reconciled to the 
new conditions. Yet he is a complete representative of the older 




ALCsEUSj TRACES' OF HIS POETRY IN HORACE— SAPPHO. 175 

spirit of chivalry that survived longer among the /Eolians than else- 
where, and he expressed his opinions with distinctness and vigor. 
The frequent references of the later writers of antiquity attest this, 
and his comparison of the state to a ship soon became, what it has 
remained, one of the commonplaces of literary allusion. Yet there is 
nothing commonplace in the fragment that contains the comparison. 
" I cannot understand the direction of the wind ; waves come rolling 
in from all directions ; we are carried amongst them in the dark ship, 
struggling with the fierce tempest. The hull is leaking ; the sails are 
torn and hanging in shreds ; the anchors are dragging." Thus he 
described the civic disturbances, taking an image that was familiar to 
the seafaring Lesbians. We know that he served as a soldier, and in 
another fragment we have an incomplete account of his equipment ; his 
house, he tells us, shimmers with brass ; the whole building is adorned, 
in honor of the god of war, with brilliant helmets, from which float 
the white horsetails, ornaments for the heads of warriors ; on hidden 
pegs hang shining greaves, a protection against the strong dart ; new 
cuirasses of linen and hollow shields are placed about, with Chalcidian 
swords and many tunics and jerkins. He sang of hospitality as well 
as military life. One fragment is interesting because Horace has trans- 
lated it almost word for word in the ninth ode of the first book. "The 
rain is pouring, there is a fierce storm outside ; the streams are frozen, 
. . . drive out the winter, heap wood on the fire, mixing a draught of 
wine with a generous hand, and wrap your head in soft wool." There 
are other traces of the work of Alcaeus in Horace, little as we have of 
the poems of the Greek poet, and perhaps it is not fanciful to detect 
in both a community of interest in political matters and in the plea- 
sures of life. What Alcaeus lacked, from the comparative insignificance 
of the civil strife in a small Greek island, is more than made up by his 
being first in the field. The strong political interests of the ^Eolians 
rendered them unsusceptible to the formal compositions of the Dorians, 
which rested on an established order of things, and the Lesbian luxury 
suggested the praise of pleasure. Alcaeus did not neglect this subject ; 
but Sappho, his contemporary, far excelled him here. Alcaeus wrote 
a number of odes to the gods, and as it were, covered the ground 
in various directions ; but Sappho in a single field, the love song, 
sounded a note that has ever won the highest praise for grace and 
vividness. The ancients entitled her the poetess, as they called 
Homer the poet. Aristotle quoted a statement that made her the 
equal of Homer and Archilochus, Plato styled her the tenth muse, 
and it will be noticed that it is not with other women that she is 
compared. 

Of Sappho' s life and character various conflicting accounts have 



176 



THE LYRIC POETS. 



come down to us. Her exceptional eminence appears to have made 
her the object of an extraordinary amount of abuse in later times 
when men had lost their appreciation or comprehension of a civilization 
different from their own, and the freedom that women had enjoyed 
among the ^Eolians became synonymous with unbridled license in the 
minds of later Attic comedians, who lived in a state of society wherein 
women were caged as in the East. Moreover, the impossibility of their 




SAPPHO. 
(Fro7ii the bronze of Herculaneum.') 



turning current events and prominent contemporaries to ridicule 
exposed distinguished persons of the past to every form of contempt. 
Such at least is the defense that is offered against the many calumnies, 
as they are called, that have gathered about her name. Whatever may 
have been her character or her habits, there is no division of opinion 
regarding the quality of her writing, for every one who has read the 
few lines she has left has fallen under the charm of her wonderful 
verse. It is not unmeaning rapture, but mere description, to say of it 
that it has the rare stamp of perfection in its compact beauty and vivid 
accuracy. It would be a small volume that should hold only the very 
best lines ever written, and it would contain many of hers that have 



CULTURE REPRESENTED BY SAPPHO. 177 

come down to us in pieces, like the extracts in Johnson's Dictionary, 
rent from their context, mere scraps and shreds, yet quivering with the 
emotion of a sensitive, rich nature. Her works survived until certainly 
the third century of our era, and probably much later, and then they 
succumbed, not to the ordinary accidents of time or to general indif- 
ference, but to the violent hatred of men in authority, who looked on 
the songs of Greek lyric poets as the Puritans looked on plays. At 
some undetermined time they were burned by official order, and, it is 
said, the poems of Gregory Nazianzen were circulated in their stead. 
We are not told how even an imperial government enforced this part 
of their literary despotism. 

The date of Sappho is about 610 B.C. Of her life scarcely anything 
authoritative is known beyond the fact that she was a native of Lesbos. 
In the islands of the ^Egean, Greek culture, or, more exactly, the 
^Eolian culture, flourished for a brief season with a greater fervency 
than it did anywhere at the time on the mainland. Possibly the prob- 
lems of the swiftly growing civilization were more readily solved in 
the comparative isolation of these insular towns, with their handful of 
inhabitants, than where the numbers were greater and more perplexed 
by various aims and feelings. At any rate the lyric passion that in- 
spired the songs of the Cohans burned with greater brilliancy and 
keener personal fervor than in other parts of Greece, where it was util- 
ized for the furtherance of patriotism or social virtue. With them it 
was pure song, while among the Dorians, their only rivals, one sees the 
traces of the spirit that was helping to form a great state. In both, 
however, the melic poetry was the direct expression of an important 
period, one of change between the heroic age and that of the greatest 
brilliancy of Greece, after the Persian wars ; and then the melic poetry 
was lost in the glory of the drama, which was built up on its variety 
and earnestness. The difference between the two sorts of poetry will 
be noticed as well as the points of likeness ; the drama belonged to the 
whole people, but the melic poetry was the possession of men who 
had not yet attained what we may call national ideas. Especially, as 
has been said, is this true of the ^Eolians. 

In the bits of Sappho's work that are left us we feel most intensely 
the nature of the poet. The translations, however careful and exact, 
are pallid by the side of the unequalled original ; yet even in them we 
may find a trace of the original charm. Thus : 

" Evening, thou bringest all that light-bringing morning hath scat- 
tered ; thou bringest the sheep, thou bringest the goat, thou bringest 
the child to the mother." 

This fragment, it will be remembered, was imitated and enlarged 
by Byron in one of the stanzas (CVII.) at the end of the third canto 



I7 8 THE LYRIC POETS. 

of Don Juan, where he, as it were, tries to show how many stops he 
has to his flute. This is his rendering : 

" Hesperus ! thou bringest all good things — 

Home to the weary, to the hungry cheer, 
To the young bird the parent's brooding wings, 

The welcome stall to the o'erlabour'd steer. 
Whate'er of peace about our hearthstone clings, 

Whate'er our household gods protect of dear, 
Are gather'd round us by thy look of rest ; 
Thou brings't the child, too, to the mother's breast." 

No better example of the difference between the best work of the 
ancients and the common qualities of the moderns could be found than 
this. Sappho says what she has to say with absolute directness and 
simplicity, without a superfluous word, with no trace of artifice; and 
Byron lets the two lines of the original grow into eight, in which 
rhyme and a long complicated stanza enforce the statement, which is 
already burthened by such additional statements as that the steer 
was o'erlabored. Moreover, the two lines, 

" Whate'er of peace about our hearthstone clings, 
Whate'er our household gods protect of dear," 

are exactly in the line of modern workmanship ; we have no house- 
hold gods, and only know them as literary creations; yet we should 
be wretched without them ; poetry without conventionalities would 
be very baffling and strange. 

What appears in these two lines of Sappho is the constant mint- 
mark, as here again : 

" As the sweet-apple blushes on the end of the bough, the very end of the 
bough, which the gatherers overlooked, nay, overlooked not, but could not 
reach/' 

And this: 

" As on the hills the shepherds trample the hyacinth under foot and the 
purple flower [is pressed] to earth." 

These two bits were welded together by D. G. Rossetti in this 
version : 

I. 

" Like the sweet apple which reddens upon the topmost bough, 
A-top on the topmost twig, — which the pluckers forgot somehow, — 
Forgot it not, nay, but got it not, for none could get it till now. 

II. 

" Like the wild hyacinth flower which on the hills is found, 
Which the passing feet of the shepherds for ever tear and wound, 
Until the purple blossom is trodden into the ground." 



SA PPHO — T RAN SLA TIONS. 



179 



The English version next given offers but a faint description rather 
than a representation of the Greek : 

" The moon has set, and the Pleiades ; it is midnight, the time is going 
by, and I sleep alone." 

Elsewhere what in the original is a cry, is turned into a mere 
statement by translation, as here : 

" Men I think will remember us even hereafter." 

And here : 

" And round about the cool [water] gurgles through apple-boughs, and 
slumber streams from quivering leaves," 

when possibly breeze should be read rather than water, for often even 
the fragments come to us in fragments. 

Only two of her poems reach us complete or in any length. One 
of them is thus admirably rendered by Thomas Wentworth Higginson : 




APHRODITE IN 
CHARIOT. 



Beautiful-throned, immortal Aphrodite, 
Daughter of Zeus, beguiler, I implore thee, 
Weigh me not down with weariness and anguish, 
O thou most holy ! 

Come to me now, if ever thou in kindness 
Hearkenedst my words,— and often hast thou hearkened- 
Heeding, and coming from the mansions golden 
Of thy great Father, 



Yoking thy chariot, borne by thy most lovely 
Consecrated birds, with dusky-tinted pinions, 
Waving swift wings from utmost height of heaven 
Through the mid-ether ; 

Swiftly they vanished, leaving thee, O goddess, 
Smiling with face immortal in its beauty, 
Asking why I grieved, and why in utter longing 
I had dared call thee ; 

Asking what I sought, thus hopeless in desiring, 
Wildered in brain, and spreading net of passion — 
Alas, for whom ? and saidst thou, ' Who has harmed thee 
' O my poor Sappho ! 

' Though now he flies, erelong he shall pursue thee ; 
' Fearing thy gifts, he too in turn shall bring them ; 
' Loveless to-day, to-morrow he shall woo thee, 
'Though thou shouldst spurn him.' 



Thus seek me now, O holy Aphrodite ! 
Save me from anguish ; give me all I ask for ; 
Gifts at thy hand ; and thine shall be the glory, 
Sacred Protector ! " 



i8o THE LYRIC POETS. 

The other has not come to us in a complete state, but more fully 
than the rest ; here is a literal translation : 

" That man seems to me peer of the gods, who sits in thy presence, and 
hears close to him thy sweet speech and lovely laughter ; that indeed makes 
my heart nutter in my bosom. For when I see thee but a little, I have no 
utterance left, my tongue is broken down, and straightway a subtle fire has 
run under my skin, with my eyes I have no sight, my ears ring, sweat bathes 
me, and a trembling seizes all my body ; I am paler than grass, and seem in 
my madness little better than one dead. But I must dare all, since one so 
poor " 

The measures that she used were various ; the most common, and 
the one that bears her name, the Sapphic, may be seen in Mr. Higgin- 
son's rendering above. While the amount that we have of her work 
is so little, it is more than probable that much of it is translated in 
Catullus's poems. So much at least may be said of the epithalamia 
or wedding-songs, yet many other kinds are spoken of with admiration 
by the ancients, such as epigrams, elegies, iambics, monodies, and 
hymns. Of odes she is said to have composed nine books, and some 
of these are thought to have been directly translated by Horace. 

While Sappho was thus readily first among the women who com- 
posed poetry at this time, it is known that she had many compan- 
ions and rivals in this art and the accompanying music, although none 
of these attained anything at all comparable with her eminence. Yet, 
of the other women, one whose name has survived is Erinna, not an 
^Eolian, but an inhabitant of the Dorian island of Telos. The state- 
ment that she was one of the circle that surrounded Sappho seems to 
rest on but faint authority. We are told of her that she composed a 
poem of moderate length in hexameters, combining the new grace of 
Sappho with the long-established qualities of the epic writers. A few 
of her poems have been gathered into the Anthology. Her date is 
extremely uncertain. 

Another famous name is that of Stesichorus of Himera, who 
flourished between 630 and 550 B.C. His family is said to have come 
from a Locrian colony in Sicily. One tradition indeed asserted that 
he was a son of Hesiod, which may also be interpreted as meaning 
that he had some close relation with the Hesiodic school of poetry. 
Yet the meagre crumbs that are left of the twenty-six books of his 
poetry do not give us the means to form a definite opinion concerning 
his work, and there is little left for us to do except to record the ver- 
dict of antiquity. This especially praised the Homeric quality to be 
found in his lyrical treatment of the old myths. It appears that he 
took his material from many varied sources ; he treated the story of 



THE CYCLIC POETS; THE TROJAN MYTH IN THEIR HANDS. 181 

the Argonaut, and the Theban and Trojan myths, following Hesiod 
and the cyclic poets, or other authorities, as seemed best. There are 
some indications that in a poem on the destruction of Troy he men- 
tioned the Italiote tradition of ^Eneas's wanderings. With what a 
free hand he treated the old myths we can see from the three opening 
lines of his ode on Helen, which run thus : " That story is not true ; 
you did not sail away in the well-oared ship ; you did not go to the 
Trojan town." The tradition runs that he had composed a poem in 
which he had spoken slightingly of the heroine, who revenged herself 
by making him blind ; she was, however, mollified by this recantation 




THE FLIGHT OF ^NEAS. 
{From a Black Vase painting.) 

and freed him of his affliction. A similar story, it is curious to note, 
is told of an Icelandic Skald, who, in a spirit of mistaken economy, sent 
the same complimentary song to two different girls. The conception 
of an unreal Helen is ascribed to Hesiod ; and the whole disposition 
to alter the myths is a proof that they had lost some of their original 
authority, or at least that there were varying authorities for the same 
story that came to the light in the general growth of Greek civiliza- 
tion. What was yet more novel, for we have no means of deciding 
the extent to which the cyclic poets modified the Homeric myths, was 
the complicated form which he gave to his lyric exposition of epic 
subjects. Recitation was, as we have seen, succeeded by musical ren- 
dering, and to the strophe and antistrophe he added the epode, thus 
bringing the lyrical form to the perfection in which it was used by 
Pindar and the tragedians. 



io2 THE LYRIC POETS. 

Ibycus, a native of Rhegium, who flourished a trifle later than 
Stesichorus, passed his life at the court of Polycrates of Samos. An 
important part of his work seems to have been a treatment of mythical 
subjects like that of Stesichorus, and some pieces have been assigned 
to both at different times ; the greater part, however, was love-poetry, 
in which he followed the famous ^Eolian lyric writers. We have too 
little of his verse left to judge of his merit, but in antiquity his repu- 
tation was high. 

These fragments may perhaps illustrate some of his traits : 

Oh ! cherished darling of the bright-haired graces, 

Euryalus, sweet, blue-eyed youth ! 
Both gentle-eyed Persuasion 'mid the roses, 

And Venus nurtured you in trutn. 

Once more do Love's dark eyes gaze into mine, 

With melting glances, and he me beguiles 

To Aphrodite's net, with charming wiles ; 
Yet at his coming doth my heart repine, 

As an old race-horse trembles, drawing near 

The course where erst he won the victory dear, 
And weak with age the contest would decline. 

Anacreon was another poet who also lived at the court of Polycrates, 
and apparently at the same time with Ibycus, although we have no 
information on which to base an opinion. Anacreon was born in the 
Ionian city of Teos. His life was one of vicissitude. Teos was con- 
quered by the Persians at the beginning of their advance ; its inhabi- 
tants abandoned their old home and betook themselves to Abdera in 
Thrace, whence Anacreon went to Samos in compliance with an invi- 
tation of Polycrates. Just how many years he remained with his 
powerful friend is not known, but it was probably soon after the fall of 
the tyrant that he went to Athens. This city was already a home of 
refinement, and doubtless afforded him sympathetic society. Indeed 
Hipparchus of Athens is said to have sent a ship to bring the poet 
to his new home, which was vying with other places in tempting men 
of genius to reside within its walls. What became of him after the 
murder of Hipparchus is not known, and is for us unimportant. The 
story of his life is valuable as showing the growing interest and jealous 
rivalry of different cities in behalf of literary cultivation. Naturally 
enough, men who are much sought after soon adapt themselves to 
what they readily think are very proper conditions, and Anacreon sang 
the praises of love and wine as readily in one court as in another. 
This facility is remarkable, but the reader is more struck with his lit- 
erary skill than by more genuine qualities. Where Sappho, for instance, 



A XA CRE ON : HIS LI TERA R Y EXCEL L ENCE— COLON E SS. 1 8 



appears sincere, Anacreon seems accomplished ; he is the master of 
many forms ; he lent literary refinement to the old popular poetry of 
the Ionians, and became a model for future singers. His very smooth- 
ness leaves us untouched. His conviviality was cold and deliberate ; 




ANACREON. 



with five parts of wine he tells us that he was accustomed to take ten 
parts of water, and this dilution affects his poetry. Prudence, how- 
ever commendable, does not inspire poetical enthusiasm, and a man 
whose bitterest grief is that gray hairs will render him unlovely 



1 84 THE LYRIC POETS. 

can scarcely awaken profound sympathy. Anacreon sang such subjects 
with untiring grace, but without passion, and without mention of what 
was serious in his life. 

It was this literary excellence which inspired admiration and imita- 
tion in later times, for real feeling eludes the skill of the copyist, who 
may yet learn any verbal trick ; and while the best men defy artificial 
rivalry, those whose main charm is technical skill are sure to be com- 
plimented by others who try to do the same thing more cleverly. 
Anacreon early received this attention, and many Anacreontic songs, 
since lost, were written at an early day. Others, composed in the 
fourth century of our era, for a time aroused great admiration among 
the moderns ; it was these that Thomas Moore translated, and it is 
this fictitious Anacreon who stood for a representative Greek lyric 
poet at the revival of Greek studies towards the end of the last 
century. Men are always ready to prefer third-rate work to what 
is really excellent, and it is only gradually that the best part of Greek 
literature, as of other literatures, has attained its proper place. 

III. 

While the melic poetry had been growing, the elegiac poetry, with 
its lessons of wisdom, had not been neglected. Phocylides of Miletus 
was one who chose this measure and wrote a number of proverbial 
sayings, a few of which have come down to us. He appears to have 
flourished about the 60th Olympiad, or 540 B.C. The fragments 
indicate very moderate poetic ability ; indeed, their quality almost 
compelled the speedy introduction of prose, for the contrast between 
the melic verse with its marvellous charm, and the arid severity of 
many of the elegiacs, is, most striking. The prosaic quality called 
for congenial prose. In one piece that survives, he repeats 
the old legend that one woman is descended from the dog, 
another from the bee, others from the pig and the horse. Elsewhere, 
he asks of what use is nobility unaccompanied by kindness in 
heart or deed. Again, he urges that young men be accustomed to 
honorable things. His lessons are true, but they do not lack obvious- 
ness. The recommendation that men first seek a competence and then 
virtue, outdoes Franklin at his worst, but violent condemnation of it, 
without knowing the context, would be unwise. One thing is certain, 
the ancients much admired Phocylides, and Aristotle quotes with 
admiration his statement that the middle classes are in many respects 
the best off, and that he should like to be in the middle rank in a 
state. He also said : " A small city, built upon a rock, and well gov- 
erned, is better than Nineveh in its madness," which is a clear expres- 



XENOPHANES— DECRIES ATHLETIC GAMES. 



185 



sion of the Greek interest 
in separate small cities, 
and of their noncompre- 
hension of federal union. 
All that they demanded 
was moderate size and 
sound government. 

Xenophanes, a native 
of Colophon, who is better 
known as the founder of 
the Eleatic school of 
philosophy, has left some 
verses that present a dif- 
ferent view of life from 
that of Phocylides. In- 
stead of practical wisdom, 
he praises the intellectual 
simplicity of the Ionic 
race, endeavoring to show 
its superiority to the culti- 
vation of physical qualities 
that were made so much 
of by the rest of the 
Greeks. Thus he says that 
whoever wins in a foot- 
race, boxing, wrestling, or 
chariot race, receives all 
kinds of honors, prece- 
dence at festivals, a purse 
of money, and public sup- 
port. This is his reward, 
even if the horses have 
done it. " Yet he is of 
less value than I ; my 
wisdom is better than the 
strength of horses or men. 
All this is foolish, it is 
not proper to prefer 
strength to wisdom. Of 
what use is all this physical 
skill? It secures no better 
government. The delight 
of winning a contest is a 




^ 






2 s 



s 



1 86 THE LYRIC POETS. 

brief one, and in no way helps to fill the granaries of a city." In 
another elegy he describes the proper conditions of what seems remote 
when we call it a banquet, but is familiar to us. as a dinner — flowers, 
agreeable perfumes, wine, and fresh waters, brown bread, cheese, and 
honey, await the guests, who begin the meal with song and prayer and 
the wish to attain justice. They shall not drink to excess, but shall 
converse about virtue and honor, not about the fights of the Titans 
and giants, and the Centaurs, the fancies of former generations, which 
are of no use, while it is always well to have respect for the good that 
the gods have done. 

Not only is this poem interesting as a statement of the moderation 
and intellectual interest of a cultivated Greek ; it also serves to illustrate 
one side of the poet which is otherwise only known to us by tradition, 
namely, his incredulity concerning the antiquated mythology of the 
Greeks. He wrote a long poem, of a philosophical nature, in which 
he is said — for the poem has not come down to us — to have expressed 
his belief in a single god, and a trace of his thought appears in this 
elegy. Certainly, the Greek mind at this time was far from slumber- 
ing in inaction when statesmen, soldiers, philosophers, and courtiers 
rivalled one another in the composition of verse. The philosophical 
poems of Xenophanes, it may be added, had long-lived influence ; his 
success in treating the subject in verse made that an authorized con- 
ventional form for the expression of philosophic speculation for both 
Greek and Latin writers, and from them it descended to modern men, 
who continued the habit, with varying success, or rather with unvary- 
ing ill-success, until the end of the last century. Yet the mention of 
interest in philosophy brings us dangerously near the beginnings of 
prose, and it is necessary first to treat of some of the great poets who 
have not yet been mentioned. 

One of these is Theognis, a contemporary of Phocylides, and like 
him a writer of elegies. There is this important difference, however, 
that while we have but a few lines of Phocylides, there remain very 
nearly fourteen hundred verses of Theognis. The fullness of this 
collection is doubtless due in good measure to the value placed upon 
these poems as a means of instruction for youth. The compilation of 
moral saws includes, however, more than the poems of Theognis. 
References may be found to events too widely distant to be included 
in one man's life, and poems of Solon, Tyrtaeus, and others are in the 
collection, sometimes as separate pieces, sometimes detached lines are 
imbedded in one of Theognis's pieces. From the collection various 
attempts have been made to write the author's life, and some indus- 
trious critics have built up a record of his actions which rivals in com- 
pleteness the recent biographical accumulation that has grown up about 



THE GNIS—P 0L1 7 ICA L PRE CEP TS—MORA LS. i S 7 

Goethe. Other, more industrious, critics decline to accept these 
minute statements which are built upon scanty references that are 
found here and there in the poems. It at least appears that Theognis 
was a native of Megara in Greece, that he belonged to the old aristo- 
cratic party which had held power for a long time. But the contrast 
between the wealth of the few and the poverty of the many excited 
revolt ; the populace rose successfully, banished the aristocracy, and 
confiscated their estates. Theognis suffered with the nobles and 
shared their exile, being welcomed in Eubcea, Sicily, and Sparta by 
those who agreed with his political sentiments. At length he returned 
to Megara, where he lived in poverty, trying to reconcile himself to the 
change in affairs. 

The poems that incontestably belong to Theognis were addressed 
to a young friend, Kyrnus, whom he endeavored to instruct in politi- 
cal matters. The relation between the two appears to have been almost 
that of teacher and pupil, for Theognis built up nearly a complete 
system of political advice in which the elder draws many lessons from 
his varied experience. He continually called the nobles the good, and 
ordinary citizens the bad, with which we may compare the later use of 
great and vulgar, employing these terms not merely as vague defini- 
tions, but with a distinct sense of their accuracy. The poems were 
written after the author's return to Megara, and he cannot conceal his 
surprise at the altered condition of affairs ; the rustics who in old times 
scarcely ventured into the city are now in control, and the aristocracy 
have no scruples against marrying a rich girl of the lower classes ; 
money has acquired a power which has distinguished it in other lands at 
later times, and Theognis is not without admiration of it, for he is 
never tired of lamenting his own poverty. Yet his political precepts 
do not breathe a revengeful spirit ; he advises the safe middle course 
and condemns wanton action. He preferred the safety of the city to 
the narrower benefit of party success. 

The collection as it stands contains many other elegies on the gen- 
eral conduct of life, in which the familiar lessons of experience are 
told in a neat form. In fact they compose a tolerably complete manual 
of the view of the world current at the time ; it is an admirable expres- 
sion of popular social wisdom. This quality gave it great popularity ; 
Theognis said what discreet men thought and listened to with sympa- 
thetic comprehension. His method is commendable ; he lacks, to be 
sure, the higher poetic qualities, but he is no less valuable as an ex- 
ponent of the ethical standard of his day. His excellence brought 
him great fame, and in Athens he enjoyed especial popularity. Eurip- 
ides and Sophocles made much use of him, and he was admired and 
quoted by Socrates, Xenophon, Plato and Aristotle. The compilation 



1 88 THE LYRIC POETS. 

had the good fortune to be used as a school-book during the Byzantine 
period, and so escaped the fate that befell the elegies of most of the 
other writers. 

This use of the poems was very different from that for which they 
were originally intended. Theognis composed at least the lyric lines 
to be sung at club-dinners, where a number of companions met, and 
after feasting admitted flute-players, to whose music, or with the 
accompaniment of the lyre, short songs were sung. These brief lays 
repeated the incessant lament over the uncertainty and mutability of 
life, the universal subject of the minor poetry of all nations. Even 
Theognis relaxes his severer mood to affirm that the best thing 
for man would be never to have been born. 

Yet it was not here that the poetry of this time found its ultimate 
expression, but rather in the richer melic verse that was far aloof from 
any relation with prose in subject and treatment, and indeed remote 
from the expression of merely personal feeling. Simonides of Ceos 
is probably the completest master of this form. He was born 556 B.C., 
the year in which Stesichorus died. His birthplace, Ceos, one of 
the Cyclades, is near Attica, so that he was early exposed to the in- 
fluence of Athens, whither he betook himself after a short visit to 
Italy and Sicily. In this new home he enjoyed the friendship of the 
sons of the tyrant Peisistratos, and after their overthrow he found a 
welcome in Thessaly. When the Persian wars broke out Simonides 
returned to Athens and sang the successes of the Greeks against the 
invaders, his elegy about Marathon winning a prize over one composed 
by ^Eschylus, the tragedian. The second Persian war inspired him 
anew, and he wrote various poems in commemoration of the Greek 
triumphs. At this period he stood at the height of his fame ; he was 
intimate with the most eminent citizens of Athens, and well known 
throughout the Greek-speaking world. When about eighty years old 
he accepted an invitation to the court of Hiero, the tyrant of Syracuse, 
a famous patron of letters, who gathered about him the most eminent 
poets of his time. Pindar and ^Eschylus also partook of his hospital- 
ity. Here Simonides died 466 B.C. 

We are told on good authority that he was avaricious, and the posi- 
tion of a poet at this time certainly laid the way open for the accusa- 
tion, even if it were not corroborated by direct evidence. In order to 
succeed, the poet was dependent on a patron, who could be most surely 
pleased by flattery. Despots are certainly averse to the frank utter- 
ance of political sentiments, and possibly indifferent to the expression 
of a poet's personal feelings ; their own importance, however, seldom 
becomes wearisome to them. Consequently, at the courts of the des- 
pots of this period, the melic poetry, shunning politics and personal 



SIMONIDES— A MASTER OF PATHOS. 189 

sentiment, sought safety in celebrating public events, very much as in 
Italy and England masques were composed to convey flattery and 
glory to rulers who took a heavy toll from the literature they patron- 
ized. The love poems of the ^Eolic school were not repeated ; they 
were as dead as ballad poetry at the court of Elizabeth ; the whole 
movement was in the direction of a sort of abstract splendor and 
grace. Fortunately for Simonides, however, he enjoyed the inspira- 
tion of the great Greek uprising against the Persian invaders ; indeed, 
his excellence shows how much was at stake, in literature alone, in 
this momentous struggle between Europe and Asia. The epigrams of 
Simonides attest his skill and eloquent power. It was, however, in 
the more complicated paeans, hyperchemes, which were poems accom- 
panied with song and dance, with an attempt to give a dramatic rep- 
resentation of the subject, so that the resemblance to masques becomes 
at once clear, that he is said to have excelled even himself, but unfor- 
tunately very little of this part of his work has come down to us. Of 
a choral song on the victory at Artemisium we have a few lines in 
which we may see the quality that antiquity with one consent ascribed 
to Simonides, namely, emphasis by means of simplicity. The com- 
pact beauty of the Greek eludes successful translation, but something 
of its value may be found in this rendering : 

Thermopylae ! when there your heroes fell, 

Giving them death, you also glory gave ; 

Your soil shall be their altar and their grave ; 
Of their fair death your name shall ever tell, 
Such dying should to praise, not tears, impel 

E'en those who loved them, and their deeds still save 

From all-destroying time their memory brave. 
This grave their home and monument as well, 
And let Leonidas himself attest 
Their courage, who with them finds glorious rest. 

The whole of this poem, if it could by any chance be recovered, 
would make much clear that is now obscure in the history of Greek 
melic poetry. The scanty lines that alone remain of these long, 
majestic poems serve but to tease us like vanishing memories which 
continually elude our attention. Yet what we have shows us some of 
the qualities of his style, the way in which he worked with simple 
means rather than by adventurous experiment. We see too that he 
was a master of pathos. Catullus attests the reputation that Simon- 
ides enjoyed for the possession of this quality when he says "Mcestius 
lacrymis Simonideis" — sadder than the tears of Simonides — and we have 
a beautiful example of its power in the famous lament of Danae. 
Acrisius, the father of Danae, had enclosed her and her boy Perseus in 
a carved chest and set them adrift on the sea in a dark nieht : 



190 



THE LYRIC POETS. 



While now about that casket rich the storm 
Rose raging, and the whirling, foaming sea 
Tossed her, all fearing, with tear-drenched cheek ; 
About her Perseus wound the tender arms, 
And murmured, " Oh ! my child, what grief is mine, 
And yet thy baby heart can sleep and find 
Repose in this brass-bound and joyless house, 
Whose cruel darkness scarce a ray can pierce. 
Yet art thou undisturbed by the waves' crash, 




ACRISIUS PUTS DANAE AND PERSEUS IN THE CHEST. 
{From a vase painting.) 

And storm winds shriek above thy curly head, 
While thou liest sleeping with thy lovely face 
Upon thy crimson mantle pillowed soft. 
But if this terror breaks in through thy dreams, 
If aught thou hearest, hear thy mother's voice 
Bid thee to slumber ! Slumber, ocean, too ! 
And oh ! unending grief, slumber awhile ! 
Put from thee cruel counsels, Father Zeus, 
And if too bold my speech strike on thy ear, 
Forgive it to the mother of my child ! " 



In the epigram, too, the simplicity of Simonides found full expres- 
sion. This is one : 



Gorgo, thine arm about thy mother lay ; 

Our tender speech, it was the last, was thine ; 
Weeping thou spak'st, " Stay with my father, stay 

And bear him other children, mother mine ! 
Happier in this than she who dies to-day, 
That they may live to soothe thy life's decay." 



SIMONIDES— LITERATURE AFFECTED BY ENVIRONMENT. 191 
Here is another: 

Pythonax and his sister, side by side, 

Here lie at rest within the grave's embrace, 
While yet their lovely youth is unfulfilled ; 
Wherefore their father, Megaritos, willed 

A consecrated stone should in this place 
Mark his undying thanks for those who died. 

An epigram, it must be understood, did not have the same meaning 
to the Greeks that it has in modern times. We understand by the 
woicl scarcely more than a rhymed joke, marked by causticity, or at 
least pertness. But the Greeks regarded it as above all things an 
occasional poem, and it was Simonides who first gave them real im- 
portance. His predecessors wrote very few epigrams, all reports of 
what they did resting on meagre foundations, and none of his contem- 
poraries w^ere at all equal to him. The circumstances in which he 
lived inspired him, as they did the whole Greek nation; and his marked 
literary skill, the product of many years of practice on the part of the 
Greeks, gave expression to the spirit that was animating his fellow- 
countrymen in their struggle for freedom. His commemoration of the 
many deeds of heroism was especially welcome to the Athenians 
among whom he was living, and wherever a monument was built to 
the slain heroes, Simonides, as the first of living poets, was called on 
for an inscription. The two extracts just given show the reasonable- 
ness of their request. Simonides was the master of what art last at- 
tains, simplicity; and the novel employment of his genius on vivid 
subjects of general interest indicated the awakening of the Greek 
mind to the contemplation of more momentous things than the muta- 
bility of life,- the brief duration of youth and beauty, all, to be sure, 
undeniable truths, but truths that are of the nature of luxuries for 
idle people. It is only in periods of inaction that these half mournful 
melodies find utterance. It is generally the useless man who is most 
afraid of death, and it is when life is empty that poets are busiest in 
pointing out its sadness. All literary history teaches us that in differ- 
ent countries similar conditions produce similar w r ork: in Persia a 
condition of apathy and ease was the accompaniment of abundant 
pathetic lyric song, in which the picturesque sadness of human life 
was abundantly treated ; in Japan a period of courtly luxury heard 
the same note sounded; in Italy, Spain and England, the detachment 
of national interest from the national life, the seclusion of literature 
behind luxury, saw men occupied with the production of literary 
gems. It was to work of this kind that Simonides gave new vigor, 
and the subsequent predominance of the epigram attests its novelty. 
The other forms that he employed bore the perfection of completed 



I9 2 THE LYRIC POETS. 

work; their task was done, the dithyrambic measures, as we shall 
see, even transformed into the drama. The others were sterile. Yet 
of Simonides we must judge mainly by report, and this places him 
high among the world's poets. We see, too, by the number of his 
victories, both the general poetic interest and his preeminence. The 
winning of a prize, as he did, over yEschylus, is a proof of this. 

Among the imitators of Simonides was his nephew, Bacchylides, 
who possessed much literary skill, which was devoted, however, mainly 
to singing the joys of life and the pleasures of society. Simonides 
was a national poet, and so one of those who address the whole civi- 
lized world; Bacchylides was in comparison a local poet of temporary 
significance. His work only confirms the opinion that we should 
naturally form of the ripeness and complexity of the Greek civiliza- 
tion at this time; alongside of the patriotism was abundant luxury, 
and this Bacchylides fully expressed. Certainly all of this sentiment 
may be found in Simonides, but the older poet combined with it a 
loftiness which the circumstances of his career demanded. An excel- 
lent example of the manner of the nephew is thus translated by Mr. 
J. A. Symonds: 

To mortal men peace giveth these good things : 

Wealth, and the flowers of honey-throated song ; 
The flame that springs 
On carven altars from fat sheep and kine, 

Slain to the gods in heaven ; and all day long 
Games for glad youths, and flutes and wreaths and circling wine. 

Then in the steely shield swart spiders weave 
Their web and dusky woof ; 

Rust to the pointed spear and sword doth cleave ; 

The brazen trump sounds no alarms ; 
Nor is sleep harried from our eyes aloof, 

But with sweet rest my bosom warms ; 
The streets are thronged with lovely men and young, 
And hymns in praise of boys like flames to heaven are flung. 

A little earlier than Simonides was Lasus of Hermione. He lived 
in Athens at the court of Hipparchus ; there he introduced modifica- 
tions — just what they were, is not clear — in the compositions of dithy- 
rambs, and contested, sometimes successfully, with Simonides. We 
have but the merest bit of his work, which probably disappeared before 
the greater merit of Simonides and Pindar. Melanippides the elder has 
likewise fallen into some obscurity. Apollodorus of Athens is known 
only as a teacher of Pindar. Tynnichus of Chalcis, Lamprokles, and 
Kydias are but names to us. 

Meanwhile we find a number of women composing lyric verse, and 
often with marked success. Among them was Myrtis, who is also said 
to have been a teacher of Pindar, although this statement has been 






SAPPHO'S CONTEMPORARIES. 193 

doubted. Another was Corinna, who for her part, and probably with 
more accuracy, has been styled a pupil of Myrtis. Remains of her 
verses, of which only very few have reached us, are a mere dying echo 
of the original. It is known, however, that she was frequently suc- 
cessful in poetical contests, once indeed winning the prize over Pindar. 
What is interesting to us is the proof that women still devoted them- 
selves to verse. Generally, however, they appear in outlying regions. 
Corinna won her fame in Bceotia. Telesilla of Argos, if tradition 
is to be believed, handled a sword as well as a pen, for when the 
Spartan Cleomenes had beaten the Argives, she placed herself at the 
head of a band of women and drove back the enemy. More fortunate 
than Myrtis, two lines of her work remain. Praxilla, a possible contem- 
porary, and a native of Sicyon, showed another side of a manly spirit 
in composing songs for feasts, generally of an instructive kind. Thus : 

" Under every stone, my friend, hides a scorpion ; take care lest he sting 
you ! There is danger in everything that is hidden." 

Another curious fragment, apparently from a sort of narrative poem, 
is the answer of Adonis to one who asked him in the shades what it 
was that he most missed. He said : "The most beautiful thing I 
h*ave left is the sunlight, next the bright stars and the face of the 
moon, ripe melons, apples, and pears." The remark is certainly in 
character. 

The following are taken from Bland's " Collections from the Greek 
Anthology," edited by Merivale : 

FROM AN ELEGY ON A SHIPWRECK, BY ARCHILOCHUS. 

Loud are our griefs, my friend ; and vain is he 
Would steep the sense in mirth and revelry. 
O'er those we mourn the hoarse-resounding wave 
Hath clos'd, and whelm'd them in their ocean grave. 
Deep sorrow swells each breast. But heaven bestows 
One healing med'cine for severest woes, 
— Resolv'd endurance— for affliction pours 
To all by turns,— to-day the cup is ours. 
Bear bravely, then, the common trial sent, 
And cast away your womanish lament ! 

# * * * * 

Ah ! had it been the will of Heav'n to save 
His honor'd reliques from a nameless grave ! 
Had we but seen th' accustom 'd flames aspire, 
And wrap his corse in purifying fire ! 

* * * * * 

Yet what avails it to lament the dead ? 
Say, will it profit aught to shroud our head, 
And wear away in grief the fleeting hours, 
Rather than 'mid bright nymphs in rosy bowers ? 



94 THE LYRIC POETS. 



ON A PORTRAIT. — ERINNA. 

I am the tomb of Ida, hapless bride ! 

Unto this pillar, traveler, turn aside ; 

Turn to this tear-worn monument, and say, 

O envious Death, to charm this life away ! " 

These mystic emblems all too plainly show 

The bitter fate of her who sleeps below. 

The very torch that laughing Hymen bore 

To light the virgin to the bridegroom's door, 

With that same torch the bridegroom lights the fire 

That dimly glimmers on her funeral pyre. 

Thou, too, O Hymen ! bidst the nuptial lay 

In elegiac moanings die away. 

ALC^EUS. 

Jove descends in sleet and snow, 

Howls the vex'd and angry deep ; 
Every stream forgets to flow, 

Bound in winter's icy sleep. 
Ocean wave and forest hoar 
To the blast responsive roar. 

Drive the tempest from your door, 

Blaze on blaze your hearthstone piling, 

And unmeasur'd goblets pour 
Brimful high with nectar smiling. 

Then beneath your Poet's head 

Be a downy pillow spread. 

THE SPOILS OF WAR. — ALOEUS. 

Glitters with brass my mansion wide ; 
The roof is decked on every side 

In martial pride, 
With helmets rang'd in order bright 
And plumes of horse hair nodding white, 

A gallant sight — 

Fit ornament for warrior's brow — 
And round the walls, in goodly row, 

Refulgent glow 
Stout greaves of brass like burnished gold, 
And corselets there, in many a fold 

Of linen roll'd ; 

And shields that in the battle fray 
The routed losers of the day 

Have cast away ; 
Eubcean faulchions too are seen, 
With rich embroider'd belts between 

Of dazzling sheen : 

And gaudy surcoats pil'd around, 
The spoils of chiefs in war renown'd, 

May there be found. 
These, and all else that here you see, 
Are fruits of glorious victory 

Achieved by me. 



SAPPHO'S CONTEMPORARIES. 195 

THE RETURN OF SPRING. — IBYCUS. 

What time soft zephyrs fan the trees 

In the blest gardens of th' Hesperides, 

Where those bright golden apples glow, 

Fed by the fruitful streams that round them flow, 

And new-born clusters teem with wine 

Beneath the shadowy foliage of the vine ; 

To me the joyous season brings 

But added torture on his sunny wings. 

Then Love, the tyrant of my breast, 

Impetuous ravisher of joy and rest, 

Bursts, furious, from his mother's arms, 

And fills my trembling soul with new alarms ; 

Like Boreas from his Thracian plains, 

Cloth'd in fierce lightnings, in my bosom reigns, 

And rages still, the madd'ning power — 

His parching flames my wither'd heart devour : 

Wild Phrensy comes my senses o'er, 

Sweet Peace is fled, and Reason rules no more. 

SIMONIDES. 

Long, long and dreary is the night 

That waits us in the silent grave : 
Few, and of rapid flight, 

The years from Death we save. 
Short— ah, how short — that fleeting space; 
And when man's little race 
Is run, and Death's grim portals o'er him close, 
How lasting his repose ! 

SIMONIDES. 

Who would add an hour 

To the narrow span 

That concludes the life of man ? 
Who would envy kings their power, 

Or gods their endless day, 

If pleasure were away ? 

BACCHYLIDES. 

Happy, to whom the gods have given a share 
Of what is good and fair ; 

A life that's free 

From dire mischance and ruthless poverty. 
To live exempt from care, 

Is not for mortal man, how blest soe'er he be. 



CHAPTER III.— PINDAR. 

The General Condition of the Lyric Poetry. I. — Its Flowering in Pindar. — His Life 
— His Relations with the Sicilian Tyrants. — A Comparison between Him and Mil- 
ton. — The Abundance of his Work, and its Various Divisions. II. — The 
Epinicion, or Song in Praise of a Victor at the Public Games. — The Games, and 
their Significance to the Greeks. — The Adulation which Pindar Gave to the Vic- 
tors ; the Serious Nature of his Work ; Its Relation to Religious Thought ; Its 
Ethical Importance, All being Qualities that were Outgrowing the Bonds of 
Mere Lyric Verse. III. — Illustrative Extracts. 

THIS brief sketch of the Greek lyric poetry brings us at last to its 
best known representative, Pindar. He is the crown of the whole 
movement, and it may be well to observe the course already taken by 
this form of verse. In the one hundred and eighty years between 
580 and 400 B.C., the most characteristic features were the simple 
^Eolic lyric and the Dorian choral lyric. Both of these spread over 
the whole of Greece, the latter advancing through Argos to the Ionic 
islands, and from them back to the mainland, while the y£olic lyric 
forms first prevailed among the islands, and thence moved westward. 
They reached Athens at about the same time, at the end of the period 
of the Pisistratidae, but the more complicated and magnificent choral 
lyric found a welcome which was denied its humble rival. With the 
crystallization of Greek power into a single mass under the Persian 
attack, the political relations of the different nations acquired im- 
portance, and in the development of national interests the expression 
of individual feelings sank out of sight. The elegy decayed under 
the rivalry of prose, and the choral lyric exactly suited the pompous 
ceremonies and the new luxury of Athens. Yet some of its forms 
languished at an early date. The seclusion in which the women of 
that city were accustomed to live forbade the employment of choruses 
of maidens, and the encomion, which was introduced by Lasos of 
Hermione and by Simonides of Ceos, found no following. The dithy- 
ramb faded away before the development of the worship of Dionysus 
that accompanied the rise of the drama. 



Yet before the decay of lyrical poetry came its full flowering time 
in the hands of Pindar. This writer was regarded by the Greeks as 
the greatest of the lyric poets, and fortunately a good part of his 



FLOWERING OF LYRIC POETRY 



197 



work has come down to us, enough to enable us to see what it was 
that the Greeks admired. We shall notice, too, that he was the last 
product of a long period. It is only then that perfection is reached 
when continued practice has decided on the most desirable form, after 




rejecting what is unsatisfactory, and after a vocabulary and habit of 
thought have grown up that aid both the poets and their audience. 
The whole historical civilization of Greece was reflected in its brilliant 
lyric poetry, with its abundant divisions that had commemorated all 



190 PINDAR. 

subjects from a lover's languishing despair to the sumptuous ceremonial 
of great religious festivals. That its growth had been towards com- 
plexity was only natural, in view of its close relation with the swiftly 
ripening civilization, and of the inevitable tendency of even sim- 
plicity, which is itself attained only by effort, to become artificial. 

Pindar was a Boeotian, and was born at Cynoscephalae, near Thebes, 
522 B.C. It is to be remembered that the Dorian style had already 
made its way throughout Greece, and that from its original use for 
religious meetings and festal choruses it had grown to fill the place 
formerly held by the great epics. The accession of wealth that fol- 
lowed the defeat of the Persians enabled rulers and citizens to pay 
generously for the panegyrics of the poets. Simonides had been de- 
nounced for writing for hire, a charge which was very obnoxious to 
the Greeks, and, as we shall see, Pindar lent his services to the 
highest bidder. The new national feeling that began to appear in 
Greece gave additional importance to the athletic contests, which were 
the meeting-place for men from every region, and the victors were 
willing to pay large sums to win the immortality that song could give 
them. Pindar was born at the very time that the Pythian sports were 
held. Of his infancy we have the tradition that the future sweetness 
of his song was prophesied by a swarm of bees that settled on his lips 
while he was sleeping. The same thing was told, towards the end of 
their life, of several other Grecian poets, and with the advance of 
Hellenic culture in Italy the same phenomenon began to make its ap- 
pearance there, as notably in the case of Virgil, while the doves cov- 
ered the infant Horace with leaves when he was sleeping in the woods. 
These incidents seem to show how carefully either the fauna of Italy 
or its poets had read Greek. 

His early education was carefully provided for; mention has already 
been made of some of his teachers, Lasos of Hermione, Myrtis and 
Corinna. Besides these, an early visit to Athens brought him under 
the charge of Agathocles and Apollodorus ; possibly it was then that 
he was taught by Lasos. At any rate, although ill-feeling grew up 
between Athens and Thebes, Pindar long preserved a warm affection 
for the city that was in fact his intellectual home. When but twenty 
years of age he composed an ode, the 10th Pythian, for the victory of 
a Thessalian youth, and very soon he was employed by Kings Arcesi- 
laus of Cyrene and Amyntas of Macedonia, as well as by the free 
Grecian cities. Yet it is not to be imagined that he held a dishonor- 
able position before these rulers ; to be sure he accepted rewards from 
them for his poems, as writers in the last century accepted gifts from 
their patrons, but without a sense of degradation. Undoubtedly the 
influence of patrons was at times evil ; writers did their best to make 



PINDAR AND MILTON. 1 99 

themselves acceptable, just as now there are men who humor the pub- 
lic against their own better judgment, but it was the only means by 
which literature could be supported. In Pindar's case we find that he 
expressed his own convictions. Hiero of Syracuse heard many words 
of good advice, as did the Cyrenean ruler Arcesilaus IV. Evidently 
Pindar was not a needy parasite who sought to conciliate the great by 
flattery, but rather a serious defender of existing institutions, who yet 
saw and tried to provide against the dangers that threatened them. 
He was by birth and education an aristocrat, and he maintained an 
admiration for Doric principles ; yet his vision was wide, and after 
overcoming his temporary prejudice against Athens he was able to 
praise what that city had done in behalf of national freedom as well 
as the energy of the Spartans against the Persians, and of the Syracus- 
ans against the Carthaginians. This breadth is the more remarkable, 
because at the beginning Thebes, misled by jealousy of Athens, allied 
itself with the invader. Above all things, Pindar was honest, and 
honesty he regarded as the foundation of virtue. In this respect he 
stands with his friend vEschylus, the great tragedian. In his rigid ad- 
herence to a lofty moral code and his adoption of the older form of 
lyric rather than the new dramatic poetry — a choice which was doubt- 
less in great measure determined by the remoteness of conservative 
Boeotia from the most modern developments of literature — he bears a 
strong likeness to Milton. For as Pindar was the complete master of 
a long-lived method that, after the perfection which he gave to it, was 
about to disappear, so Milton was the last representative in England 
of the learned culture of the Renaissance, of the ripest literary devel- 
opment of awakening Europe. Then, too, in both we see the choice 
of complicated models, and a masterly use of difficult, recondite 
language and allusion which require for their full comprehension care- 
ful study. Both too have won admiration, but often an admiration 
not unmingled with awe, that has secured for both respect rather than 
popularity. Pindar is certainly hard reading. He kept himself of set 
purpose in the clouds, and his exalted flight presented obstacles even 
to the ancients — how much more to us who must painfully decipher 
his difficult language and grope our way confusedly through his vast 
accumulations of mythical lore ! 

Pindar was a fertile writer. For more than forty years he was busily 
producing poems of various kinds ; hymns, paeans, dithyrambs, prosodia, 
parthenia, hyperchemes, encomia, scolia, threni, and epinicia, or 
hymns of victory, which form the bulk of what is left to us of his 
work. While these various forms were all admired, we are told that 
the epinicia were the most popular — perhaps the most nearly popu- 
lar would be the more exact expression, although Pindar was honored 



200 PINDAR. 

throughout Greece. The Athenians put up a statue in his memory; 
one of his hymns was inscribed on a slab in the temple of Jupiter 
Ammon in Thebes. The fact that we have only fragments of other 
poems than the epinicia compels us to take on trust much of the 
praise that was given to him, but we have enough of these to see 
what it was that antiquity admired. 

II. 

The epinicion was a song in praise of a victor at the public games. 
These games, known as the Olympian, Pythian, Nemean, and Isthmian, 
were the most important festivals of the Greeks. The Olympian 
games were held at Elis once in four years, in summer, and their 
importance can scarcely be overestimated. They were held in honor 
of Zeus, whose golden and ivory statue, the work of Phidias, was 
the masterpiece of Greek art. It was placed in the temple, and 




REWARD OF VICTORY. 
{From a vase painting.) 

represented the god, seated, as he is described by Homer, shaking his 
locks, whereat Olympus shakes. We have the unqualified testimony 
of Greeks and Romans to the magnificence of this colossal statue — it 
was forty feet high — which consecrated the place where the games 
were held. Contestants came from all parts of Greece, and there were 
numberless spectators assembled, for the occasion was like a great 
national fair at which there met, not traders, but men who exchanged 
intellectual novelties. There philosophers debated, poems were read, 
painters showed their work ; it was at this great festival that Herod- 
otus read his history to the assembled multitudes, and it was before 
this brilliant collection of spectators that races were run, and the vie- 



THE GREEK GAMES. 



20I 



tors attained widespread fame The apparent prize 
was a wreath of wild olive. The Pythian games 
took place in the spring, once in four years ; the 
prizes were a wreath of laurel and a palm. The 
Nemean games were held in the Nemean groves, 
near Cleonae, in Argolis, every three years, and the 
successful contestant received a wreath of parsley. 
The Isthmian games were held at Corinth, at the 
same intervals ; the prize was a wreath of pine. 
These modest rewards were, however, but certificates 
of brilliant success over many and sturdy rivals. 




CROWNING A VICTOR. 
{From a bowl in the Luynes collection^) 



Contestants appeared, not only from all Greece, 
but from remote regions where Hellenic colonies 
had been founded, from Sicily and even from Africa. 
These distant tyrants and the free cities and noble 
families vied with one another in magnificence and 
liberality, the chariot races especially inspiring osten- 
tatious emulation. In one race, Pindar tells us, 
forty chariots were upset; one may judge from that 
incident of the abundance of competitors. The 
winners were little short of heroes. Plutarch tells 
us that one town removed a part of its walls to 
admit a victor as if he were a conquering general. 
Cicero scarcely exaggerated when he said that to a 
Greek an Olympic victory was dearer than a 
triumph to a Roman. Consequently the odes of 
the greatest poets were properly employed in help- 







202 PINDAR. 

ing the fortunate winners to secure immortality. There was no 
festival, one might almost say no incident of public life that lacked 
its lyrical praise ; naturally enough Simonides or Pindar was solicited 
to lend additional luster to these great solemnities, and to celebrate 
with song such important victories. We see from what we have of 
Pindar's work that he brought to the accomplishment of this task all 
the complicated machinery of the lyric verse. This form had already 
abandoned the personal note of the yEolic writers, and with the 
aid of music and dance had become an artificial method of expression. 
Its main inspiration was the religious sense, for to the Greek mind 
religion was everywhere. The remote feeling of an uncivilized 
race that the hand of a god was directly present in every circum- 
stance of life survived among the people of this race, together with 
the numerous gods who shared the duties of supervision over all 
phenomena. It was in their praise that the lyric poetry found its 
busiest employment. This was extended to the celebration of the 
various victories. Pindar praised not so much the individual contes- 
tant as the deity who had aided him to secure the victory, or in whose 
honor the sports were held. Then, too, the deities of the city and of 
the family had to receive their due praise. The success of the winner 
was far from being the sole possession of one man ; it was a glory 
shared by all his kin, by the men of his city and race, by his ancestors, 
by all who were in any way connected with him. Hence the odes ad- 
dressed a larger audience than they would have done if they had 
simply celebrated one man's prowess ; they sang the great event rather 
than an individual. It is this religious bearing that makes the poems 
hard for us to read. They are the full product of a long-growing sys- 
tem whereof our knowledge is most scanty, and they are rich with 
references to a mass of mythological lore that bound the living Greeks 
to a fabulous past, and made their religion a very part of their being. 
The myths underlay history, politics, morals, everywhere presenting an 
ideal image of human life to the poet and the artist. It was as if the 
gods had stepped down from Olympus to share the work of men and 
to aid them with brilliant and inspiring example. Consequently the 
lyric poet was never tired of celebrating the myths that were connected 
with the subjects of his song. He was free to employ mere local 
legends ; he could even invent myths in honor of victors, as in 
modern times fictitious genealogies have lent additional luster to 
famous heroes. 

The long life of the lyric poetry had formed certain rigid rules that 
no one was at liberty to break. Thus the poet was expected not 
to utter his own personal sentiments, but to observe the laws govern- 
ing the various forms of composition. He was to praise noble actions, 



PINDAR'S CONCEPTION OF HEAVEN. 203 

not to blame. The license that Archilochus, for instance, had enjoyed 
was wholly denied him. His hands were bound, as much as are now 
the hands of a man who composes religious music, and he was com- 
pelled to magnify the glory of the gods. The way in which Pindar 
did this shows the extent of the changes in Greek thought. In Hesiod 
the gods are crude beings ; in Pindar's time the swiftly growing civiliz- 
ation has made over man's whole relation to the universe ; the intellect- 
ual travail of centuries has refined the morality and found a new mean- 
ing in the old stories. These are not denied or derided ; they are held 
to contain a deeper meaning than was once apparent. 

All these things become clear in what Pindar has to say concerning 
human destiny, for it is about this subject that all serious thought re- 
volves. Ancestor worship had been handed down in a weakened form 
from remote times, and Pindar asserts the interest that the dead take 
in the glorious deeds of their descendants. Thus in the fifth Pythian he 
says that all the sacred kings beneath their monuments, from the 
bosom of the earth that now encloses them, hear the great virtue of 
their descendant refreshed by soft dew of flattering hymns ; and else- 
where he affirms that the dead take part in the noble actions of their 
descendants ; the dust of the tomb does not rob them of the brilliant 
honor of their race. More important are his expressions of the future 
world. In this region the righteous are separated from the wicked, 
and their abode is a charming region where the sun forever shines, 
fresh breezes blow, and lovely trees, fruits, and flowers abound, — a 
scene, it will be noticed, not unlike that depicted by the early painters 
of the New Jerusalem. The after-world of which we are told in the 
Odyssey is a pallid shadow of this world, filled with an awful gloom, 
worse, to be sure, for sinners, but kindly to none. In Pindar, however, 
we find the righteous enjoying pleasures, for 

" There some please 
Themselves with feats of horseback exercise, 
And some with draughts and others with the lute, 
And every sort of happiness 

Blooms in luxuriance there : 
Whilst a sweet odor lies 

For aye above that land so fair, 
From them that mingle victims numberless 
With fire, whose radiance shines 
Afar upon the gods' well-tended shrines." 

The wicked, on the other hand, undergo cruel torments ; their souls 
hasten down a steep path to the gulf of Erebus, where the slowly 
crawling streams of black night exhale noxious miasms. The souls of 
the accursed, he also says, forever wander about the earth in dreadful 
torment, in eternal bonds of agony, while the blessed dwell in heaven. 



204 PINDAR. 

singing hymns of praise to the great God. To be sure, Pindar puts 
the abode of the blessed at one time in the regions under the earth and 
at another on Olympus, but one will not have to seek long for similar 
trifling inconsistencies. What is better worth studying is Pindar's 
mention of metempsychosis, with yet another indication of the future 
abode of the sinless. On them, he says, the sunlight falls by night 
and day, and theirs is a life void of toil ; they do not need to till the 
earth or to sail the sea, but these favorites of the gods, who have fol- 
lowed virtue, pass tearless days. Whoever has been able, here and in 
that abode, thrice to keep his soul from stain of sin, passes to the 
happy isles, where the breezes from the sea whisper about them, and 
where on land and water grow odorous golden flowers of which the 
blessed make wreaths to bind their heads and arms. Again, he says 
the souls of those from whom Persephone has received expiation for 
their sins she lets return again in the ninth year to the sunlight ; from 
these spring illustrious kings, men invincible in their strength and ad- 
mirable in their wisdom ; -after their death posterity honors them as 
heroes. 

All of these statements show the greater complications of religious 
thought in later days, and naturally the view of life on this side of the 
Styx had become more intricate. To be sure, we find even among 
the least civilized races frequent expression of the uncertainty and 
mutability of human existence. They are bewailed by savages as well 
as by riper peoples ; this part of the lesson of life is soon learned, or, 
at least, soon stated. Pindar is never tired of repeating it. " Ephem- 
eral creatures, what are we ? what are we not ? Man is but the dream 
of a shadow ; when the gods turn upon him a ray from heaven, a bright 
light surrounds him and his life is sweet." This is his continual re- 
frain ; even in the triumphal odes, in his songs of victory, he sounds 
his lament for the inevitable tragedy of life. All good lies in the 
hands of the gods, or of the fate above the gods, who may dispense 
or withhold it, as to them seems good. " In a moment the inconstant 
breath of fortune turns from pole to pole." " When a man, without 
too much pains, has obtained some advantage, he seems skillful, and 
we call others foolish by his side ; he appears to have secured his life 
by the wisdom of his plans. But this is not in man's power, God alone 
can grant it, who raises to-day one man and holds another beneath his 
mighty hand." But there would be no limit to the extracts from Pin- 
dar that might establish the proof of his lofty melancholy. Yet, with 
this, he knows how to celebrate the glowing joy of life in these 
young conquerors; he sings youth, beauty, strength, and love, and all 
with a firm vigor far removed from effeminacy. His note is that of 
a trumpet; he is Miltonic in the lofty air with which he treats his 



COMPARATIVE QUALITIES OF THE LYRIC POETS. 205 

subjects as in his vivid language. He chants the praises of glory 
with wonderful fervor, as if the winning of the prizes at these games 
atoned for the greater part of human ill. Success in these and in 
war formed the highest gratification for men. 

With regard to man's duties he sounds as lofty a note as in his 
praise of the gods. In his religious utterance he at times rivalled 
even the Hebrew prophets, as when in the ninth Pythian ode he 
said : " Thou knowest the fixed end of all things and all their 
ways ; thou knowest the number of the leaves the earth puts forth 
in spring, and hast counted the sands in the sea and in the rivers, 
as they are moved by the waves and by the sweep of the winds ; 
thou knowest what will come and whence it will rise." In morals 
his constant lesson was the one already familiar to the Greeks, 
according to which moderation was strongly counselled. While he 
saw the sadness of life he escaped depressing melancholy, for every 
thing lay in the hands of the gods, and this faith made duty simple, 
even if austere, and at times puzzling. We have seen that many of 
the Greeks lamented a long life ; it was their constant wail that those 
whom the gods loved died young. But Pindar's faith preserved him 
from this sadness; he is always serene in his lofty majesty. If we 
compare him with what we know of the other lyric poets of Greece, 
we shall find that they all possessed in common a certain tone, although 
they are to be distinguished by separate qualities. The three leading 
names are those of Alcman, Stesichorus, and Simonides. Alcman 
lived in the seventh century ; Stesichorus at the beginning of the sixth ; 
Simonides at the end of the sixth and the beginning of the fifth, B.C. 
Of the first-named we have but very little left, and this is marked by 
an air of simplicity that is very unlike what is to be found in Pindar. 
Stesichorus kept closer to the epic style, borrowing from those long 
poems the subjects of his songs. His style too appears to have 
possessed an abundance and facile eloquence very unlike the qualities 
of Pindar. In Simonides again we find grace and soft emotions very 
different from Pindar's remote majesty. Pindar is not pathetic ; we 
notice in him rather an intellectual massiveness than an attractive and 
sympathetic treatment of the feelings. He is remote from general 
interest, and his loneliness is only intensified by his liberal use of myths 
that are as strange to us as the continual references to Latin civiliz- 
ation would be to one absolutely ignorant of the classics. It is not too 
much to say that a great deal of Pindar's work cannot be understood 
by us as it was by the Greeks ; it is a sealed book to the moderns. For 
one thing, their relation to Greek music is something that we cannot 
understand. That this was intimate and important is well known, yet 
this is lost to us. Even Cicero said that when Pindar's lines were 



206 PINDAR. 

separated from the music for which they were written they lacked al- 
most every appreciable trace of rhythm ; how then can we detect it ? Of 
the merits of his style, too, we can catch only a small part, yet enough 
is left to give us a deep impression of a great man. A bold imagina- 
ation and an unfettered vocabulary always present problems to read- 
ers, and these odes which formed the principal literary expression of a 
comparatively unknown civilization are no exception to the rule. Yet, 
remote as are some of the qualities of his verse, there is a core which 
cannot fail to delight readers, a lofty tone which cannot fail to impress 
itself upon every one who will read him. It is to be remembered, how- 
ever, that in the multitude and fulness of his allusions his style is like 
modern music, which abounds in melodies and suggestions that escape 
separate analysis, and combine together to leave a general impression. 
The fourteenth Olympiad, a very short ode, may illustrate this side of 
Pindar's manner. It is given in a prose translation: 

" Ye dwellers in a settlement that enjoys the blessings of Cephisus' waters, 
a land of beautiful steeds, queens of fertile Orchomenus famed in song, 
ye Graces, guardians of the ancient race of the Minyse, hear me, for to you 
I pray ; since it is by your favor that all which is pleasant and sweet comes 
to mortals, if any man is a poet, or handsome, or has gained glory by vic- 
tory. Nay, the gods themselves preside not at the dance or the banquet 
without the revered Graces ; but they are the directors of all that is done in 
heaven, and setting their seats by the side of the Pythian Apollo with the 
golden bow, they worship the eternal majesty of the Olympian Father. O 
venerable Aglaia, and thou, song-loving Euphrosyne, daughters of the mighti- 
est of the gods, lend me your ears, and thou also, tuneful Thalia, and 
regard this Comus, advancing with sprightly foot under favoring fortune. 
I have come to sing of Asopichus in the Lydian air, and with the strains of 
the lute, because the land of the Minyse hath won at Olympia through thee, 
Go now, Echo, to the dark-walled abode of Persephone, and convey to his 
father the glorious news that when you see Cleodamus you may tell him 
about his son, that she hath crowned his youthful locks, by the vales of the 
renowned Pisa, with wreaths from the chivalrous contests." 

In this brief poem Pindar has made mention of many things : he 
has praised the victor, a boy who has won the boys' foot-race, B.C. 
476 ; he has referred to his dead father ; he has eulogized his country 
and its principal deities, all the essentials of the ode, and with the glow 
of adoration and praise there is combined a pensive melancholy which 
raises the poem above a mere set congratulation. This one is simple 
enough ; however, many of the others are more complex. Such, for 
instance, is the first Pythian. 

The absolute ripeness of form is readily perceptible, even through 
the translation, in these extracts from Pindar, and the mastery of music 
and metres, the possession of abundant material, the facility with which 
complexity is treated, all betoken the completed method of utterance 



PREPARATORY STAGE OF GREEK LITERATURE. 207 

that awaits a fuller development. The almost cloying perfection of 
the lyric verse was beating the air when it celebrated subjects of such 
comparative unimportance as these athletic victories ; but when the 
time came that Greece awoke from its internecine wars and pleasant 
peace to find its existence endangered, and was victorious over a. 
mighty foe, all the practice that had been acquired in these remote 
centuries had prepared a new form of expression, which in its dignity 




THE GRACES. 



and beauty matched the amazing political and military enthusiasm 
that must have astounded the Greeks themselves as much as it did the 
Persians. It is with justice that some writers speak of the period in 
Greek history before the Persian wars as the middle ages ; it was a time 
when the whole country was ripening and making ready for its full 
life, for its brief period of wonderful achievement ; and this not merely 
in literature, but in its politics as well, for both are only different forms 



2oS PINDAR. 

of expression for the same men. And it is well to observe how full of 
seriousness the Greeks had packed the forms which still survived from 
a time of savageness. These races, for instance, and all the games, had 
such an origin, but that was forgotten in the rich and sudden develop- 
ment of ethical and religious treatment of important questions. 

A striking characteristic of the lyric verse had been brevity and com- 
pactness, — in a word, extreme grace of form, — a quality which appealed 
especially to cultivated readers or hearers. It was distinctly an aristo- 
cratic luxury, not a means of popular expression. This remoteness 
from the current of life secured for the poetry all that luxury and ease 
can give, and when it was the Greeks to whom they were given the 
result was a lyrical literature of the most amazing fulness and beauty. 
Its limitations, its narrow range of subjects, and what with all its 
charm remains a conventional mode of expression, marked it as the 
possession of a few persons of refinement, and thus ill adapted to ex- 
press the new and vastly wider emotions of the greater days. Yet, of 
course, its influence remained ; the new literature which succeeded it 
did not break with the old traditions, but grew from them in a larger 
and richer field ; while the lyric verse flourished without a rival, it was 
continually helping to establish the authority of a literary form in 
which precision as well as grace should exercise great authority. For 
centuries these formed the poetical ideal, and they affected the subse- 
quent development of great poetry which never lost its original charm 
and exactness of expression. In the drama this acquired a special 
form under the influence of the intenser and broader subjects with 
which it dealt, and of the religious solemnity of the dramatic festivals ; 
but these qualities still remained. 



TO MEGAKLES OF ATHENS. 



Imperial Athens ! with thy name I best may 'gin 

To build the basement of my lofty song, 

That laud's Alkmaion's sturdy kin 

For horsemanship. What country or what house 

More glorious 

Could poet name amid this earth's unceasing din 

To thrill Hellenic tongue ? 



For wheresoe'er the town be, 'tis a household word, 

The honor of Erectheus' populace, 

Who have thy holy shrine restored 

In sacred Pytho beautiful to see, 

Apollo. Me 

Thy conquests and thy fathers' — five on Isthmus' sward, 

One in Olympia's race, 



ODES' TO ME LI SS US A AD HIERO. 209 

Surpassing, Zeus conferred, and two 

At Kirrha — lead to hymn thee — Megakles, 

And much thy new success cloth please 

Me ; still I rue 

That envy will not all thy merit spare 

To cross. But, so they say, 

Such steadfast, flourishing success alway 

Must good and evil bear. 

TO MELISSUS OF THEBES. 

If any man, by glorious feats of strength, 

Or store of honest gold, have got him fame, 

Yet curbs within his soul besetting insolence, 

He well deserves that on his name 

His countrymen should heap their praises. Excellence, 

O Zeus, to mortals comes of thee ; 

And reverential folk prosperity 

Have more enduring than their neighborhood ; 

While crooked hearts their seeming good, 

Though flourishing awhile, will leave alone at length. 

For noble deeds beholders it behoves 

To recompense the brave with noble song, 

And kindly him to laud who leads the gay parade. 

Now to Melissus here belong 

Twin crown for conquests twain ; the one in Isthmus' glade 

By favorable Fate was sent 

To turn his heart to jocund merriment ; 

The other gathered in the hollow glen 

Of the deep-chested lion, when 

He bade them shout the name of Thebes, the Thebes he loves, 

Where rival chariots ran, victorious. 

Nor does he put to shame 

Th' hereditary courage of his kin. 

Ye well have known how oft Kleonymus 

The honors of the chariot race would win ; 

And so his mother's folk, who trace to Labdakus 

Their pedigree, 
Gat wealth by four-in-hands. But rollingly 
Time plays a changing game, 
The sons of gods from hurt are free alone. 



TO HIERO OF SYRACUSE. 

My golden cittern, whom 

Apollo keeps 
In common with the raven-tressed Muses, thee, 

Beginner of the revelry, 
The dancers' step awaits ; the minstrel choir, 
When thy sweet strings' melodious quivering 
The prelude wake, thy signs inspire 
The hymn that ushers in the festival to sing. 
Zeus' pointed bolt of fire eternal thou in gloom 
Canst shroud ; the eagle on his sceptre sleeps, 

And lets his wide 
Pinions so swift of flight droop down on either side 



2I o PINDAR. 

Of all the feathered kind 

Though he be lord. 

About his beaked head a cloud of sable night 

Thou sheddest ; o'er his orbs of sight, 

Spelled by thy sweep of song, his eyelids close 

In pleasant slumber ; softly to and fro 

He sways his back in deep repose ; 

Nay, headstrong Ares' self has oftentimes let go 

His lance's cruel point with sleep to glad his mind. 

To souls of gods thy missiles calm afford, 

With skill endued 
By Phoibos and the Muses' full-clad sisterhood, 

But whosoe'er 
Of Zeus' love have never had a share 

Are sore distressed 
To hear the cry of the Pierides 
On land or midst the dark resistless seas. 
Like him who lies in baleful Tartarus, 
Typhceus of the hundred heads, the deadly foe 
Of all the gods, whom erst 
Kilikia's famous cavern nursed ; 
But now the sea-beat cliffs precipitous 
That frown o'er Cumae hold him down, 
And all Sikelia weighs upon his shaggy chest ; 
And Etna's pillar-peak that pierces air, 

With ice bestrown, 
The yearlong nurse of nipping snow ; 
From whose recesses jets 
The awesome flood 

Of fire that none may near ; and while the daylight beams 
A cataract of smoke that gleams 
With lurid lights her torrents pour, but when 
The dusk of even falls, her blaze blood-red 
Rolls boulders huge each ragged glen 
Adown, to splash and sink in ocean's level bed. 
'Tis yonder reptile born to lame Hephaistus lets 
These fountains forth. To all the neighborhood 

A prodigy 
Of fear and wonder full he is to hear and see ; 
And how the plain between 
And Etna's crest 

Of dark-leaved forest he is chained, and all his back 
The torments of his bedding rack 
Laid out at length. O Zeus, I pray thee grant 
That I may find acceptance in thine eye, 
Who lov'st this mountain-top to haunt, 
A fruitful country's front, whose namesake city nigh 
Her famous founder has bedecked with glory's sheen ; 
Since Pytho's herald on the course confessed 

Her honors thro' 
The chariot-race's crown adjudged to Hiero. 

By those who sail 
Across the seas 'tis deemed of prime avail, 
When they begin 

A trip, to quit the port with breezes fair ; 
For thus 'tis like that they will home repair 
With better luck ; so in my song of praise 
For this success I fain would find an augury 



ODE TO HIERO. 211 

That many a future year, 

For steeds' victorious career, 

And crowns and feasts and hymns that minstrels raise, 

Renown on Etna may attend. 

Oh ! Lykian Phoibos, Delos' king, delighting in 

Kastalia's fount in steep Parnassus' vale, 

Do thou befriend 
This noble land, and hear my plea. 

For human excellence 

From heaven derives 

All means of growth, and none, unless the gods assent, 

Is wise or strong or eloquent. 

And Hiero to laud is my intent ; 

So hope I that my missile may not fall 

Without the lists, as javelin sent 

From whirling hand with cheek of brass, but distance all 

Opponents by its cast. Would heaven the affluence 

And gifts of wealth's increase wherein he lives 

May ne'er be less ; 

While time of anguish past affords forgetfulness ; 

Or brings to mind instead 

The memory 

How boldly in the stress of fight he held his own ; 

When at the hands of gods a throne 

They got, an honor such as Hellene ne'er 

May reap, the diadem of majesty 

And unexampled wealth to wear. 

And now forsooth in Philokteta's fashion he 

Has gone to war, and one that held a haughty head 

Has found it need his flatterer to be. 

They say of yore 

The godlike heroes came from Lemnos' lonely shore, 

The archer-son 

Of Poias, by his ulcer nigh undone, 

To fetch away ; 

Who wasted Priam's city, and at length 

The Danseans' labors ended, poor of strength 

Although he went, for thus it was decreed. 

So may the healing god vouchsafe to Hiero 

In coming time to be, 

Granting him opportunity 

To gain whate'er his heart of hearts may need. 

Before Deinomones upraise, 

Sweet Muse, the paean of the four-in-hands, I pray ; 

For children share the joy by fathers won ; 

Then bid our lays 

For Etna's sovereign friendly flow ; 

Since Hiero for him 

Resolved to rear 

That town in freedom 'neath the laws of Hyllus' rule. 

For in Aigimius' Doric school 

The sons of Pamphilus and Herakles — 

Who 'neath the slopes of wild Taygetus 

Are settled, dwelling- at their ease — 



PINDAR. 

Have ever wished to bide. With fortune prosperous 

They quitted Pindus' clefts in ages distance-dim, 

Amyklas gained, and dwelt in glory near 

The snowy steeds ♦ 

Of Leda's twins, abloom with fame of warlike deeds. 

Grant, Zeus who hearest prayer, 

In years to come 

That kings and citizens by Amenanus' burn 

May truth from falsehood aye discern. 

Let Hiero a guiding-star arise 

His son to lead, his folk in honor hold, 

And both in quiet harmonize. 

I pray thee, Kronos' son, their war-cry overbold 

Let not Phoinikian nor Tyrrhenian foemen dare 

To shout again, but keep them still at home, 

And ponder well 

The lamentable loss that all their fleet befell 

At Cumae when, 

By Syracuse's lord subdued, their men 

He bade to throw 

Forth from their speedy ships into the sea ; 

And from their heavy bonds of slavery 

All Hellas freed. From Salamis the fame 

Of Athens I will chant for meed ; the deadly fight 

At Sparta sing, that nigh 

Kithairon's heights was fought, whereby 

The Persian host of bent-bowed archers came 

To ruin ; while to laud the kin 

Of great Deinomenes my hymn of praise shall flow 

Of deeds in Himera's well-watered glen 

Achieved, wherein 

Their enemies were put to flight. 

If at the season meet 

One lift his voice, 

Twisting his many threads to one diminished strand, 

Less hard will be man's critic-brand 

Of blame ; for evermore satiety 

Tarnishes eager hopes : a townsman's ears 

Do ne'er so much in secrecy 

Weigh down his soul, as when a friend's success he hears. 

Yet pass not honors by, for envy is more sweet 

Than pity. Guide with honest helm the choice 

Of yonder throng : 

On Truth's good anvil forge the arrows of thy tongue. 

For if a syllable 

Of folly fall 

Out of thy mouth, 'tis deemed of moment, being thine : 

Thy every good or evil sign 

A host of trusty witnesses observe : 

Of many people thou hast stewardship. 

Thy native bloom of heart preserve ; 

And if thou lovest to have thy praise on every lip 

Shrink not from spending: loose the sail that breezes swell, 

Like wary skipper. Be not snared withal 

By cozening cheats. 

'Tis posthumous renown that tongue to tongue repeats, 



ODE TO WINNERS IN ATHLETIC GAMES. 

Alone may show, 

Dear friend, the life of mortals hence who go, 

By minstrelsy 

And story-tellers' faithful histories. 

The kindly worth of Kroisus never dies ; 

And Phalaris, of the burning brazen bull 

And cruel mind, has earned an infamous renown 

Wide as the world, and ne'er 

Do tuneful citterns let him share 

Their joyance when the banquet hall is full 

Of carols of the gentle train 

Of boys. The first of prizes is prosperity, 

The second good repute ; but he, below 

Who both may gain 

And keep, has won the highest crown. 



FOR ARISTOMENES OF AIGINA. 
WINNER OF THE WRESTLING-MATCH. PYTH. VIII. 




WRESTLING-MATCH. 
{Florentine Group. ~) 



O kindly Peace, daughter of Righteousness, thou that makest cities great, 
and boldest the supreme keys of counsels and of wars, welcome thou this 
honour to Aristomenes, won in the Pythian games. 

Thou knowest how alike to give and take gentleness in due season ; thou 
also, if any have moved thy heart unto relentless wrath, dost terribly con- 
front the enemy's might, and sinkest insolence in the sea. 

Thus did Porphyrion provoke thee unaware. Now precious is the gain 
that one beareth away from the house of a willing giver. But violence shall 
ruin a man at the last, boast he never so loudly. He of Kilikia, Typhon of 
the hundred heads, escaped not this, neither yet the king of giants ; but by 
the thunderbolt they fell and by the bow of Apollo, who with kind intent 
hath welcomed Xenarches home from Kirrha, crowned with Parnassian 
wreaths and Dorian song. 

Xot far from the Graces' ken falleth the lot of this righteous island-corn- 



214 PINDAR. 

monwealth, that hath attained unto the glorious deeds of the sons of Aiakos ; 
from the beginning is her fame perfect, for she is sung of as the muse of 
heroes, foremost in many games and in violent fights ; and in her mortal 
men also is she pre-eminent. 

But my time faileth me to offer her all I might tell at length, by lute and 
softer voice of man, so that satiety vex not. 

So let that which lieth in my path, my debt to thee, O boy, the youngest 
of thy country's glories, run on apace, winged by my art. 

For in wrestlings thou art following the footsteps of thy uncles, and 
shamest neither Theognetos at Olympia, nor the victory that at Isthmus was 
won by Kleitomachos' stalwart limbs. 

And in that thou makest great the clan of the Midylidai thou attainest 
unto the very praise which on a time the son of Oikleus spake in a riddle, 
when he saw at seven-gated Thebes the sons of the seven standing to their 
spears, what time from Argos came the second race on their new enterprise. 
Thus spake he while they fought : " By nature, son, the noble temper of thy 
sires shineth forth in thee. I see clearly the speckled dragon that Alkmaion 
weareth on his bright shield, foremost at the Kadmean gates. 

" And he who in the former fight fared ill, hero Adrastos, is now endowed 
with tidings of a better omen. Yet in his own house his fortune shall be 
contrariwise ; for he alone of all the Danaan host, after that he shall have 
gathered up the bones of his dead son, shall by favor of the gods come 
back with unharmed folk to the wide streets of Abas." 

On this wise spake Amphiaraos. Yea, and with joy I too myself throw 
garlands on Alkmaion's grave, and shower it withal with songs, for that 
being my neighbor and guardian of my possessions he met me as I went 
up to the earth's centre-stone, renowned in song, and showed forth the gift 
of prophecy which belongeth unto his house. 

But thou, far-darter, ruler of the glorious temple whereto all men go up, 
amid the glens of Pytho didst there grant this the greatest of joys ; and at 
home before didst thou bring to him at the season of thy feast the keen- 
sought prize of the pentathlon. My king, with willing heart I make avowal 
that through thee is harmony before mine eyes in all that I sing of every 
conqueror. 

By the side of our sweet-voiced song of triumph hath Righteousness 
taken her stand, and I pray, O Xenarches, that the favor of God be unfail- 
ing toward the fortune of thee and thine. For if one hath good things to 
his lot without long toil, to many he seemeth therefore to be wise among 
fools and to be crowning his life by right desiring of the means. But these 
things lie not with men : it is God that ordereth them, who setteth up one 
and putteth down another, so that he is bound beneath the hands of the 
adversary. 

Now at Megara also hast thou won a prize, and in secluded Marathon, and 
in the games of Hera in thine own land, three times, Aristomenes, hast thou 
overcome. And now on the bodies of four others hast thou hurled thyself 
with fierce intent, to whom the Pythian feast might not award, as unto thee, 
the glad return, nor the sweet smile that welcometh thee to thy mother's 
side ; nay, but by secret ways they shrink from meeting their enemies, 
stricken down by their evil hap. 

Now he that hath lately won glory in the time of his sweet youth is lifted 
on the wings of his strong hope and soaring valor, for his thoughts are 
above riches. In a little moment groweth up the delight of men ; yea, and 
in like sort faileth it to the ground, when a doom adverse hath shaken it. 



THE NEMEAN GAMES. 215 

Things of a day — what are we, and what not ? Man is a dream of 
shadows. 

Nevertheless, when a glory from God hath shined on them, a clear light 
abideth upon men, and serene life. 

Aigina, mother dear, this city in her march among the free, with Zeus and 
lordly Aiakos, with Peleus and valiant Telamon, and with Achilles, guard 
thou well. 

FOR ARISTOKLEIDES OF AIGINA, 
WINNER IN THE PANKRATION. 

O divine Muse, our mother, I pray thee come unto this Dorian isle Aigina 
stranger-thronged, for the sacred festival of the Nemean Games : for by the 
waters of Asopos young men await thee, skilled to sing sweet songs of tri- 
umph, and desiring to hear thy call. 

For various recompense are various acts athirst ; but victory in the games 
above all loveth song, of crowns and valiant deeds the fittest follower. 
Thereof grant us large store for our skill, and to the king of heaven with its 
thronging clouds do thou who art his daughter begin a noble lay ; and I will 
marry the same to the voices of singers and to the lyre. 

A pleasant labor shall be mine in glorifying this land where of old the 
Myrmidons dwelt, whose ancient meeting-place Aristokleides through thy 
favour hath not sullied with reproach by any softness in the forceful strife 
of the pankration ; but a healing remedy of wearying blows he hath won at 
least in this fair victory in the deep-lying plain of Nemea. 

Now if this son of Aristophanes, being fair of form and achieving deeds 
as fair, hath thus attained unto the height of manly excellence, no further is 
it possible for him to sail untraversed sea beyond the pillars of Herakles, 
which the hero-god set to be wide-famed witnesses of the end of voyaging : 
for he had overcome enormous wild beasts on the seas, and tracked the 
streams through marshes to where he came to the goal that turned him to 
go back homeward, and there did he mark out the ends of the earth. 

But to what headland of a strange shore, O my soul, art thou carrying aside 
the course of my ship ? To Aiakos and to his race I charge thee bring the 
Muse. Herein is perfect justice, to speak the praise of good men : neither 
are desires for things alien the best for men to cherish : search first at home : 
a fitting glory for thy sweet song hast thou gotten there in deeds of ancient 
valour. 

Glad was King Peleus when he cut him his gigantic spear, he who took 
Iolkos by his single arm without help of any host, he who held firm in the 
struggle Thetis the daughter of the sea. 

Also the city of Laomedon did mighty Telamon sack, when he fought 
with Iolaos by his side, and again to the war of the Amazons with brazen 
bows he followed him ; neither at any time did man-subduing terror abate 
the vigour of his soul. 

By inborn worth doth one prevail mightily ; but whoso hath but precepts 
is a vain man and is fain now for this thing and now again for that, but a 
sure step planteth he not at any time, but handleth countless enterprises 
with a purpose that achieveth naught. 

Now Achilles of the yellow hair, while he dwelt in the house of Philyra, 
being yet a child made mighty deeds his play ; and brandishing many a time 
his little javelin in his hands, swift as the wind he dealt death to wild lions 



216 PINDAR. 

in the fight, and boars he slew also and dragged their heaving bodies to the 
Kentaur, son of Kronos, a six years' child when he began, and thenceforward 
continually. And Artemis marvelled at him, and brave Athene, when he 
slew deer without dogs or device of nets ; for by fleetness of foot he over- 
came them. 

This story also of the men of old have I heard : how within his cavern of 
stone did deep-counselled Cheiron rear Jason, and next Asklepios, whom he 
taught to apportion healing drugs with gentle hand : after this it was that 
he saw the espousals of Nereus' daughter of the shining wrists, and fondling 
nursed her son, strongest of men, rearing his soul in a life of harmony ; 
until by blowing of sea winds wafted to Troy he should await the war-cry of 
the Lykians and of the Phrygians and of the Dardanians, cried to the clash- 
ing of spears ; and joining in battle with the lancer Ethiops hand to hand 
should fix this purpose in his soul, that their chieftain Memnon, Helenos' 
fiery cousin, should go back again to his home no more. 

Thenceforward burneth ever a far-shining light for the house of Aiakos ; 
for thine,0 Zeus, is their blood, even as thine also are the games whereat my 
song is aimed, by the voice of the young men of the land proclaiming aloud 
her joy. For victorious Aristokleides hath well earned a cheer, in that he 
hath brought new renown to this island, and to the Theoroi of the Pythian 
god, by striving for glory in the games. 

By trial is the issue manifest, wherein may one be more excellent than his 
fellows, whether among boys a boy, as among men a man, or in the third 
age among elders, according to the nature of our mortal race. Four virtues 
doth a long life bring, and biddeth one fit his thought to the things about 
him.* From such virtues this man is not far. 

Friend, fare thee well : I send to thee this honey mingled with white milk, 
and the dew of the mixing hangeth round about it, to be a drink of min- 
strelsy distilled in breathings of Aiolian flutes ; albeit it come full late. 

Swift is the eagle among the birds of the air, who seizeth presently with 
his feet his speckled prey, seeking it from afar off ; but in low places dwell 
the chattering daws. To thee at least, by the will of throned Kleio, for 
sake of thy zeal in the games, from Nemea and from Epidauros and from 
Megara hath a great light shined. 

* This is very obscure : Bockh said that the longer he considered it the more obscure it 
became to him. Donaldson is inclined to think that Pindar is speaking with reference to the 
Pythagorean division of virtue into four species, and that he assigns one virtue to each of the 
four ages of human life (on the same principle as that which Shakspere has followed in his 
description of the seven ages) namely temperance as the virtue of youth, courage of early 
manhood, justice of mature age, and prudence of old age. — E. Myers' Trans I. of Pindar. 






BOOK III.— THE GREEK TRAGEDY. 



CHAPTER I.— ITS GROWTH AND HISTORY. 

I. — The Prominence of Athens after the Wars with Persia — The Qualities of the 
Athenians; Their Intellectual Vivacity; the Aristocratic Conditions of Their 
Society — The Little Influence of Women and Books — Their Political Training — 
Their Literary Enthusiasm. II. — The Drama a Growth, not a Special Crea- 
tion — The Early Condition of Dramatic Performances — The Celebration of 
Festivals; the Dithyramb; the Rudimentary Dialogues; the Worship of 
Dionysus — The Drama Before ^Eschylus, and the Resemblance between its 
Growth and that of Modern Times. III. — The Mechanical Conditions— The 
Theatres; the Actors and their Equipment — The Stage — The Masks —The 
Absence of Minute Detail, and Unlikeness to Modern Drama — The Chorus ; 
its Composition and its Share in the Performance at Different Times. IV. — 
The Author's Relation to his Play — The Tetralogy and its Obscurities — Fur- 
ther Obscurities Besetting the Subject, such as the Symmetry of the Plays — 
The Plays that Survive — The General Development of the Drama and its De- 
pendence on the Life of the Time. 

I. 

THE lyric poetry then flourished in different parts of Greece, passing 
through various stages of development from the expression of 
personal feeling to its appearance as a magnificent formal mode of utter- 
ance, reaching at last a completeness, in the hands of Simonides and 
Pindar, that foreboded a change ; for the perfection of any literary 
method, once attained, marks its swift decay. The change that was 
about to appear had other causes. Greece, by its victory over the Per- 
sians, had acquired a comparative unity and an absolute consciousness of 
strength that altered the whole condition of the country. One result 
of the victories was the prominence that was given to Athens, a promi- 
nence that, however, inspired the enmity of Sparta. The glory that 
Athens had acquired by its part in the war was undeniable. The power 
of Persia had twice shattered itself against its stubborn defence, and 
thus not only were its citizens filled with pride, but even its neighbors 
had to confess the proved military prowess of the defender of Greece. 
In Attica, too, the best qualities of the Greeks found their fullest devel- 
opment. In no other country did the ideals of this race come near 



218 



GREEK TRAGEDY— GROWTH AND HISTORY. 



the height that was here almost attained. The Athenians possessed 
in full measure the Ionic vivacity and flexibility, standing in this re- 
spect in marked contrast to the crude and rigid conservatism of the 
Spartans; their literature and art survive to show what the human 
intelligence has been able to accomplish under favorable conditions. 




MELPOMENE. 
{The Muse of Tragedy.) 



Yet it would be unfair to ascribe all the merit of Greek work to their 
circumstances ; their intellectual activity lay behind this, the same 
quality that underlay and inspired all their work. The Athenians al- 
ready possessed certain elements of civilization to a greater extent 
than any of their neighbors ; they were humaner and they were better 
educated than the other Greeks, and were thus freed from some of the 



INTELLECTUAL SOCIABILITY OF THE GREEKS. 



219 



provincialisms that clogged the growth of the more conservative 
peoples. 

What especially distinguished the Ionians and the Athenians notice- 
ably even among them, was what may be called their intellectual 
sociability. This was furthered by many circumstances. The city was 
of moderate size ; its population may have been a little more than 
half a million, but the number of adult freemen bearing arms was only 
about twenty-five thousand. For every freeman we must count four 
or five slaves, slavery having existed among the Greeks from time im- 
memorial; and these were often, though not always, not to be distin- 
guished from their masters by difference of race or color ; they were, if 




FAMILY SCENE. 
{From a Relief?) 



not Greeks, generally at least Aryans, although some, to be sure, were 
Arabians, Egyptians, and Negroes, and were far from forming a sepa- 
rate and hostile caste. There were in Attica about four hundred thou- 
sand of these, on whom there fell the duty of performing all the work, 
while their masters enjoyed leisure. This aristocratic class, it must be 
remembered, did not live in a period when money-making was the 
chief end of man ; they were free to live, not compelled to devote 
themselves to securing the means of living. Mere subsistence was 
simple in a mild climate, and in a society devoid of extravagant tastes. 
Their houses were mere sleeping-places where the wife stayed and 
supervised the children and domestic occupations. The considerable 
commerce in which Athens was engaged was far less complex than 



220 



GREEK TRAGEDY— GROWTH AND HISTORY. 



modern business, and the freemen were thus possessed of leisure to 
devote themselves to intellectual interests. 

The Athenian society, to be sure, missed the influence of women. 
The wife was distinctly scarcely more than a household drudge, 
the mother of children. The importance of women in the old times 
as we see it reflected in the Homeric poems had disappeared, and 
society suffered, as was inevitable, from the decay of family life. The 
association with hetairai brought degradation, and even apart from 
this it is easy to see that the insignificance of women left its mark in 
literature ; for in ^ischylus the women hold an inferior position, and 
in Sophocles the women have distinctly masculine qualities. In Euri- 
pides to be sure, they become more important, but on the whole a 




WOMEN AT TOILET. 
(From a vase fainting.) 



great difference between the Greek and modern literature is in the 
position that women occupy. The heroines of the Greek plays all be- 
long to heroic times. 

Another difference is the way in which modern men derive their 
opinions from books. When in Athens men were near life ; the stu- 
dent with us is remote from life, buried in volumes of greater or less 
value. Their knowledge was more strictly immediate ; ours is neces- 
sarily in great measure attained at second-hand. The Athenians too 
had direct control of political matters ; all were directly concerned 
in the making and administration of laws ; they governed without 
the intervention of deputies. It lay with them to declare and wage 
wars. In consequence they received continuous political training, of 
a sort, too, that encouraged their natural disposition to eloquence and 



ATHEXS—THE LITERARY CAPITAL— THE DRAMA. 221 

their amenability to reason. It was in conditions like these that 
Athens became the intellectual leader of Greece. Earlier it had known 
rivals; Syracuse, for instance, in Sicily, was for a time a main centre of 
intellectual inspiration. Philosophy found encouragement there, and 
men of letters were summoned from every quarter. In the colonies on 
the coast of Asia Minor literature received a start on the termination of 
the Persian wars, but the most distinguished men of that region became 
well known in foreign parts. In Greece itself we have seen Sparta 
offering hospitality to poets ; but from this moment it retired within 
itself and had no part in the intellectual advance, which it had only 
encouraged by patronage, not by production. In Thebes there was 
Pindar, but his main encouragement came from Athens ; but beyond 
this there was no movement to be at all compared with this which has 
made that city immortal. 

It has already been mentioned that Simonides was a favorite at 
Athens, and that Pindar studied there and preserved for that city a 
peculiar affection which was warmly returned ; and from these facts we 
perceive the growing importance in literature of the Attic capital. It 
was now about to begin its own work in literature, which was of a 
kind that Greece had never before seen. 

II. 

Like everything else in literature, the Greek drama was not a special 
creation, but a gradual development out of older conditions. We find 
a dramatic element prominent in the Greek, as for that matter in all 
religious rites. Imitative dances, like the Pyrrhic, had existed since 
a remote antiquity, and in the various festivals we find men personat- 
ing a god, who were clad was dramatically repre- 
in some conventional at- /&n°r^ sented, and similar crude 
tire that at once made /f^ut T 5^5 performances were found 
them known. Scenes from I k^fSf I CflJ everywhere in Greece. It 



some religious story were I \M) LJF^/7 was > however, in the fes- 

represented with appro- \^. K? " T *".-^ tivals attendant on the 

priate action. In Delphi, harvest that the religious 

for example, the incident apollo slaying r i tes had their fullest 

r ' THE DRAGON. 

of the conflict between (From a Coin.) expression; for besides 

Apollo and the dragon the formal celebration 

with song and dance, these occasions were famous for the privileges 
the populace enjoyed of almost absolute freedom of speech. For a 
moment license was the rule ; every one enjoyed the fullest liberty of 
jesting, as now in certain countries in the carnival, itself a survival of 
remote nature-worship. Besides this hold upon the populace, the liar- 



222 GREEK DRAMA— GROWTH AND HISTORY. 

vest was closely connected with the worship of Dionysus, the god of 
the vine, and so one of the most prominent of the deities who every 
year won a victory over the antagonistic forces of nature. The vine 
was this god's gift to mankind, and it was from the rural festivals in 
his honor that the Greek drama took its rise. The merry-making on 
these occasions was unbridled, and the complicated myths that had 
grown up about Dionysus, the miracles that he had performed, presented 
abundant material for dramatic imitation. Both tragedy and comedy 
arose from the twofold worship of this god. 

It was in both autumn and in spring that he was honored by public 
feasts. In the autumn there reigned complete joviality; in the spring, 
when the birth of the god was celebrated, and the new wine was first 
tasted, more reserve prevailed. On both occasions a song of praise to 
the god was sung, and from this grew both divisions of the drama. At 




DIONYSUS AND THE SEASONS. 



the harvest time, when fertility and increase were acknowledged with 
gratitude, and the symbols of reproduction were carried in a proces- 
sion with solemn song, ribald jest and ridicule accompanied these rites; 
this was the origin of the comedy. Tragedy sprung from the dithy- 
ramb that was sung in the less jocund celebration of the rites in the 
spring time. On this occasion the various adventures of the god lent 
themselves to imitation and gradually to the fuller exercise of the 
dramatic art. 

The dithyramb had for some time been the favorite form of lyric 
poetry among the Athenians, and it was the one best adapted for the 
growth which time made necessary in this form of literary expression. 
It was a complicated form, and it gradually acquired many modifica- 
tions, both in regard to its rhythmical and its musical components. 
Lasos of Hermione, Pindar's teacher, had especially developed it, and 
with such success that his fame quite overshadowed that of Arion, its 



THE BIRTH-PLACE OF THE DRAMA. 223 

inventor. In its improved and richer state it attracted the attention 
of wealthy citizens, and its performance was encouraged with lavish 
generosity. In fact it embodied all the qualities of the various lyrical 
forms and acquired new ones under the skilful hands of Pindar and 
Simonides. The new complexity of Greek life overflowed the old ves- 
sels, just as the Renaissance compelled the introduction of newer and 
larger forms while yet making use of the literary methods of medi- 
aevalism. 

The evolution of the drama was very gradual ; so far we have found 
scarcely more than the soil from which the drama was to grow. The 
first step towards independent existence seems to have been this, that 
the leader of the chorus became, as it were, independent of his fellows 
and was able to carry on a dialogue with them. It was among the 
Dorians that imitative representations began, and that tragic and comic 
choruses first appeared ; the fuller development of both, however, be- 
longed to Attica, and the little village of Icaria bears the reputation of 
being the birthplace of both tragedy and comedy. Yet this statement, 
even if true, helps us but little. Amid all this uncertainty we only 
begin to touch solid ground when we come to Thespis, an Icarianwho 
carried the tragic chorus from his home to Athens, where it speedily 
took root and flourished. It appears that he gave the leader of the 
dithyrambic dance a part as an actor who should recite mythical 
stories without connection with the song in praise of Dionysus. These 
stories were recited with some mimetic action. Narration such as we 
find in the epics was admitted, the lyric choruses continued, and thus 
in Athens the tragedy was evolved from the dithyrambs. Of none of 
these, unfortunately, have we more than fragments, and in some of the 
tragic choruses we have doubtless the survival of its older form, so 
given that we may best judge what it was in earlier times. This re- 
cital of old myths which Thespis introduced we may conceive to have 
developed into the play, while the choruses hand down the religious 
song. Yet just by what steps the drama was developed is only to be 
conjectured. Phrynichus (511-476 B.C.) held an important position in 
the change, but the fact that we know but little more than the titles 
of his plays renders his services obscure. These show that he chose 
for writing very diverse legends ; thus, The Phoenician women, The 
Persians, The capture of Miletus, Actaeon, Alcestis, Andromeda, Tan- 
talus, etc., indicate a wide principle of selection. We are told that he 
was the first to introduce a female character, an innovation of con- 
siderable importance. 

Such then is the dim picture of the Athenian stage when iEschylus 
appeared. The festival in honor of Dionysus was celebrated in the 
spring time, a goat being sacrificed to the god, and choruses perform- 



224 



GREEK DRAMA— GROWTH AND HISTORY. 



ing their dances about the altar and the victim. Later, the goat was 
awarded as a prize to the successful leader of the chorus. The name 
tragedy (from the Greek r/jdyog, a goat) came from the fact that the 
singers appeared wearing the masks of satyrs and clad in goats' skins. 
With time the inappropriate masks ceased to be used, but the name 
remained. 

The resemblance between the evolution of the Greek drama and 




PAN MASKS. 



that of modern times is very distinct ; both owed their origin to reli- 
gious rites, for the unfolding of mysteries and miracle plays from eccle- 
siastical ceremonies has been clearly shown, and thus both the ancient 
and modern stage secured an important element of popularity. To be 
sure the modern drama paid dearly for belonging to posterity by being 
overborne by the work of the classic stage, while that of Greece en- 
joyed full independence of literary models; but where this shadow was 
less obscure, as in England, the development was normal and fertile. 



Yet there are reli- 
gions and religions, 
and the marked dif- 
ference between me- 
diaeval Christianity 
and the early wor- 
ship of Dionysus is 
so great that the 





PANTOMIME MASKS. 



acknowledged simi- 
larity of the origins 
of ancient and mod- 
ern drama is almost 
hidden beneath the 
mass of divergencies. 
Behind one was a 
past that had tri- 



umphed successfully overthe barbarism which left its rites, so to speak, 
as the raw material to be worked by art and enthusiasm into a thousand 
charming forms. The savage survivals were like the physical geog- 
raphy of the land, tamed, smoothed, cultivated, made inhabitable, 
modified, not destroyed ; and in the other we have a drama growing up 



MECHANICAL CONSTRUCTION OF THE GREEK THEATRE. 225 

out of the ruins of past civilizations, obscured by contemporary 
barbarism, if the term is not too severe. And two things more 
unlike than the worship of Dionysus and the Christianity of the 
middle ages it would not be easy to imagine, one rejoicing in life, the 
other animated by hatred of what was the chief inspiration of the 
early Greek stage. Still the resemblance shines through the difference 
of conditions, and is no less apparent in the ripening than in the 
budding of the two dramas. 

III. 

Before discussing what was done in the flowering time of Greek 
tragedy, it will be well to consider the mechanical conditions that 
attended the productions of the plays. The ancient theatres of Greece 
were large stone structures, built to contain the whole adult free popu- 
lation of a Greek city. They were generally devoid of architectural 
beauty, possibly because their size baffled the men who above all 
things loved moderation and proportion. They perhaps despaired of 
treating the vast bulk of the theatres with success, and, abandoning all 
architectural effect, contented themselves with making them safe and 
convenient. It was only in later years and in remote regions, in the 
Peloponnesus and the colonies, for example in Syracuse, that they 
were built with an eye to architectural beauty. The Athenians began 
to build their stone theatre about 500 B.C., after the press of people 
had broken down the old wooden seats, and it was hurriedly completed ; 
it was without a roof, open to the sky, and the plays were always given 
in the daytime. If a shower fell the spectators would seek shelter in 
the passage-ways that ran behind the seats, or they could endure it 
without interrupting what was really a solemn religious rite. To have 
shut in the theatre with a roof would have seemed to the Greeks 
an objectionable thing ; the tragedies had a ceremonial significance 
that demanded this performance in the open air under the very eyes 
of the gods, and the climate made such protection unnecessary. The 
spectators' seats were arranged in a semicircle about what in a modern 
theatre we call the parterre, or, like the Greeks, the orchestra, rising 
gradually towards the back. The actors wore masks with contrivances 
for carrying the voice, and with larger faces, so that those even at a 
great distance could see and hear ; moreover, the cothurnus augmented 
the height of the performers. The use of masks, moreover, obviously 
prevented what would have seemed to the Greeks the distraction of 
seeing the varying expressions of the actors' faces. The development 
of the actor's personal suitability to a part is something of purely 
modern growth, and far removed from the Greek conception of the 



226 THE GREEK STAGE APPOINTMENTS. 

drama as a piece of ritual in which the various performers were as 
unindividual as at all times are the priests who conduct any purely 
religious ceremony. Besides, there is always something statuesque 
about every form of Greek art, which was far removed from modern 
feelings. 

The stage formed the diameter of the orchestra, and was a long, 
comparatively narrow space, in the centre of which the actors stood. 
Just back of this centre was an open space, called the proscenium. 
The front wall towards the orchestra was adorned with small columns 
or similar decorations, the whole stage resting on boards supported by 
a stone foundation. The scenery was cleverly arranged according to a 
conventional model. On the left was a representation of a city, which 
included a palace, temple, or whatever the play might demand ; on the 
right were open fields or mountains, or the sea-shore, and the side 
scenes were composed of upright triangles, movable on an axis so that 
the scene could be changed without difficulty. At the back there were 
probably many things actually in position that are only painted on 
modern scenery. If a temple was represented, an altar stood in the 
proscenium for sacrifices, etc. In the back wall there were one main 
entrance in the centre and two side entrances ; the first for the use of 
the leading characters, the others for the inferior ones. Besides these, 
which faced the spectators, and appeared as doors in architectural 
scenery, there were four side entrances, two on the stage at the inner 
corners of the proscenium, and two more at the opposite ends of the 
orchestra. These last were intended for the chorus, but were occasion- 
ally used by the actors, who then ascended the steps leading from the 
orchestra to the middle of the stage. Beneath the seats of the spec- 
tators ran a passage-way, through which spirits from the lower regions 
advanced to the staircase that carried them to the stage. The machinery 
to support the gods that should appear in the air or to carry away mor- 
tals was kept out of sight of the spectators behind the Avails on both 
sides of the stage. Arrangements also existed by which actors could 
sink into the earth, or houses could be shattered or burned. A tower 
could easily be set in the back of the stage ; in short, the mechanical 
contrivances were most convenient. When, for example, it was neces- 
sary to reproduce the interior of a house, a machine behind the mid- 
dle entrance projected a roof over the centre of the stage. The cur- 
tain rolled down, instead of up as with us. The chorus had its 
entrances below, in the orchestra, where it remained for the greater 
part of the time, and where it performed the customary dances. In 
the orchestra, opposite the middle of the stage, stood an altar-like 
elevation, of the same height as the stage, called the tJiymele, the 
survival of the ancient stone slab on which a victim was sacrificed to 



228 



GREEK DRAMA— ITS GRO WTH AND HISTOR Y. 



Dionysus. It was around this that the chorus gathered when not 
taking part in the action of the play, but simply observing the course 



of events. The 
leader of the chorus 
stood on the level 
surface of the thy- 
mele, where the first 
actor of tragedy had 
stood, to have a clear 
view of what was 
taking place on the 
stage and to converse 
with the actors. The 
thymele, it is well to 
remember, was in the 
centre of the whole 
building; from it the 
semicircles of seats 
were described just 
as, in the days when 
the drama was com- 
ing into existence, 
the space where the 
chorus alternately 
stood and danced 
was surrounded by a 
circle of spectators. 

The only connec- 
tion between the 
drama and the wor- 
ship of Dionysus con- 
tinually appeared in 
the performances as 
we have already seen 




TRAGIC ACTOR. 
{From an ivory figure in the Fillon 
Collections^) 



of the theatre. The 
dress of the tragic 
actors, for instance, 
was not the simple 
attire which we find 
exhibited in most of 
the Greek works of 
art, but was rather 
one modelled after 
the requirements of 
the Dionysiac festi- 
val. Almost all the 
actors wore long 
robes reaching nearly 
to the ground, and 
over these were flung 
vestments of crimson 
or other striking col- 
ors, with trimmings 
of various hues 
and golden jewels, 
such as were usually 
worn on the days of 
the Dionysiac festi- 
val. While the 
chorus, who always 
represented, as it 
were, idealized spec- 
tators, and took but 
a subordinate part in 
the play, were not 
distinguishable by 
their dress from the 
part of a god or a 



it in the construction 

ordinary citizens, the actor who took the 

hero wore this conventional and solemn attire. Moreover, the 

cothurnus, of which mention has .been already made, rendered 

him some inches taller than he would naturally have been. 

The mask that he wore was larger than life, and to preserve the proper 

proportions his clothes were stuffed out to heroic size. The mobile 

Greeks had brought to perfection the art of gesture, and probably the 

skill of the actors in their movements modified somewhat their artifi- 



THE TRAGIC MASKS— THEIR REMOTE RIG TV. 



229 



cial appearance in padding and masks. The tragic masks were not 
wholly unattractive ; they were not caricatures, like those of the comic 
actors ; the mouth was open, the eye-holes were large and the general 
impression was one of solemn dignity. Moreover, it is easier for us to 
reconcile the unchangeableness of expression with the characters of 
an ancient play than it would be to endure it in a modern one, and 
especially in one of Shakspere's. In the Greek plays we often find a 
character expressing but one emotion from the beginning to the end, 
as the Medea of Euripides or the Ajax of Sophocles ; in the King 
QEdipus of Sophocles, the altered mood might perhaps have been ex- 
pressed by a change of masks, and so with others. 

The origin of this use of masks has long been the subject of discus- 
sion. In ancient times their invention was ascribed by various 




Ml 




TRAGIC MASKS. 
(From wail paintings.) 



authorities to different persons, although Aristotle expressed himself 
unable to form any definite opinion in regard to the matter. A good 
reason for his hesitation readily suggests itself, namely, that no one of 
the early tragedians, to whom the merit was commonly ascribed, did 
in fact invent the masks, but that these existed as survivals of the 
paraphernalia of the Greek rites from remote and uncivilized times, 
such as we now find employed by other savage races, as the American 
Indians and the Esquimaux. Indeed, the use of masks is widespread 
among uncivilized peoples ; it begins apparently with a dim notion of 
terrifying or deceiving demons, and soon becomes a formula of wor- 
ship. It was from this state that the custom appears to have entered 
the Greek drama. In the ceremonies of the Dionysiac festivals it was 
usual to stain and disguise the face, and for this purpose first leaves 
and later linen masks were employed at a very early date. Some of 
the masks represented animals, as afterwards in the Birds and Frogs of 
Aristophanes, in the same way that we now find similar disguises ex- 
isting in different parts of the world. While the mask is common 
among nearly all savage races, we may find it surviving in the dramatic 



230 



ITS GROWTH AND HISTORY. 



performances of the Chinese and Japanese, and doubtless after going 
through a very similar experience. The Roman mask appears to have 
had the same origin, and to have maintained itself down to the present 
day. In the masques of the Elizabethan playwrights, which were 
composed after Italian models, we have an undoubted survival of the 
old custom, which still lingers in the masked ball. 

Whatever their origin, the use of masks helped to secure the vivacity 
of the comedy by furnishing a conventional disguise for its satire, and 
to preserve the solemnity of the tragedy by maintaining the traditions 
of the ancient rites ; and they were particularly well suited to make 
more marked the uniformity of purpose that we generally find ex- 
pressed in a Greek play. In the modern drama the conditions are 
very different, and we find more stress laid upon individuality and a 

far greater variety of action. Thus, 
in the tragedies of Shakspere — 
where met the very different 
streams of mediaevalism and the 
Renaissance, there was no lack of 
various moods ; the conflict was 
perpetual between gloom and 
jollity, despair and hope. In the 
French classic drama, on the other 
hand, there prevailed a compara- 
tive uniformity, and the majesty 
of its spirit was long in giving 
ground before modern changes. Its superiority to external details, 
to the minor matters which are of the greatest importance in the 
realistic drama, only concentrated the spectators' attention on its real 
merits, on the intellectual conflict, so to speak, which the dramatist 
proposed to set forth. Every thing else • was of as little importance 
as is local color in an oratorio ; there was an almost complete disregard 
of anachronisms; Roman heroes wore modern wigs, coats, and boots, 
and these apparent inconsistencies were reckoned as but part of the 
inevitable inaccuracy of all scenic representations. The drama always 
requires some conventions, and the only controlling law is the assent 
of the audience; in this case it was freely given, and the classic French 
plays moved after a generally recognized and tolerably uniform fashion 
that well represented the artificial and somewhat complicated social 
system of the time, just as modern plays, with their greater attention 
to minute details and precise verisimilitude, express our interest in 
facts that may be directly observed. 

In its remoteness from minute accuracy the French tragedy bore a 
noteworthy correspondence to the impersonal quality that the masks 




MASKS. 
(From a relief in Naples.) 



RISE OF THE DRAMA FROM RELIGIOUS CEREMONIES. 231 

and customary conventionality gave to that of the Greeks ; but what 
in France was an indication of merely the enforcement of certain 
social and political conditions, was in Greece primarily an expression 
of religious feeling, which naturally concerned itself but little with 
what would have seemed the trivial minutiae of everyday life. Yet 
the Greek tragedy continually yielded to the modern spirit ; and while 
it began under the inspiration of awe and reverence, and throughout 
retained its original form, we yet see the influence of the immediate 
business of life making itself more and more forcibly felt. In ^Eschylus 
it is remote ; in Euripides it is near, and in Sophocles we may see the 
two inspirations almost equally balanced. The main thing to be noticed 
at this point, however, is the rise of the drama from religious cere- 
monial, and the survival of the form then assumed, not merely through- 
out the Greek tragedies, but even in those of modern times. The 
Greek tragedy was primarily a magnificent ritual, which, like all rituals, 
petrified into a lasting form the existing customs of the day where it 
first took shape ; and since these consisted of invocation and lofty lan- 
guage, the dithyramb became the fountain from which the most im- 
portant currents of later poetry took their rise. Later we shall see its 
equal influence on the almost contemporary formation of prose. 

From the first the actors were not so much individuals as personifi- 
cations of great contesting principles, abstract representations of 
familiar conditions ; and the absence of their individuality was aug- 
mented and preserved from what would have seemed a concession to 
pettiness by the disguise of a mask. But what was lost in the direc- 
tion in which the modern mind has worked was gained in impressive 
dignity ; and the importance of the tragedy was maintained by its 
alliance with the most solemn and baffling questions of mythology. 

Besides the actors there was the chorus. This consisted originally 
of fifty, later of twelve, and finally of fifteen men, who were under the 
direction of a leader. This leader was at times of service as a sort of 
fourth actor, when he appeared as a representative of the whole chorus, 
and discussed matters with one or more of the actors. The whole 
band, too, lessened the barrenness of the scene. The sense of national 
property in the drama was encouraged by the fact that all the mem- 
bers of the chorus were private citizens who volunteered their services, 
practised the songs and dances, in short performed their part in the 
play from a feeling of civic duty. The position of leader of the 
chorus fell by turns to different prominent citizens, very much as, at 
the present time, the calmer duty of heading a subscription list falls 
on a comparatively small number of rich men. He it was who was 
deputed to instruct and maintain the chorus, to provide meals for the 
different members, and to furnish a tripod as a reward for the success- 



232 



GREEK DRAMA— ITS GROWTH AND HISTORY. 



ful tragedian. The chorus was the representative of the body of 
citizens; its members took no direct part in the action of the play, 
they were a band of men who sympathized, warned, praised, or con- 
demned, as seemed most fitting. Their songs were accompanied by 
the music of the flute, and less often of the lyre, and they uttered 
them either when gathered about the thymele, or when, arranged in 
two semi-choruses they descended into the orchestra, and advancing 
or retreating, or forming graceful groups, they chanted their comments 
on the deeds of the play. These lyric outbursts, with their formal 
dances, were something like the interludes between the acts of a play. 
Then the actions of the various characters were judged, and the tragic 
feeling, intensified by these solemn interruptions, was supported until 
the thread of the play was taken up, and it proceeded to its end. 



Often, too, it 
fell to the chorus 
to take part in 
the dialogue; in 
that case the 
appointed lead- 
er spoke alone 
in the name of 
all his compan- 
ions. Their 
main duty, how- 
ever, was the 
performance of 




TRAGIC CHORUS REHEARSING. 



the choral song 
and dance. This 
was their most 
important func- 
tion, to be sure ; 
but it is to be 
borne in mind 
that in early 
times from the 
beginning to 
the end of the 
play they were 
present and a 



part of the spectacle ; they were not mere performers of an interlude, 
far from it — they followed every thing that was said or done with 
curiosity and interest, accompanying the dialogue and action with 
movement and gesture which occasionally turned into dance ; at times, 
as has been said, they took part in the dialogue, and, as it were, 
between the acts they gave full expression to their feelings with lyric 
verse and complicated dance. One of the later changes made by 
Sophocles was the natural one of limiting the prominence thus given 
to the chorus, and diminishing its omnipresent interest in the play. 
The dances, too, became more artificial. The various songs are 
carefully distinguished. The parodos is the song with which the 
chorus made its first appearance. Naturally, the exact form varied 
in the different plays ; originally the chorus sang a song in honor of 
Dionysus, but this custom vanished, leaving behind it however, 
the measure of a hymn or of a processional song, which were 
employed for comment on the play. It was sung as the chorus 
advanced, wound around the thymele, and took its position in the 



PREDOMINANT ROLE OF THE CHORUS. 



2 33 



orchestra. Generally the opening speech, which was called the pro- 
logue, indicated the approach of the chorus, which in the parodos, as 
it were, struck the opening note of the play and announced its real 
ethical significance. The stasimon was the name given to the utter- 
ance of the chorus later in the play when the stage was empty. These 
songs served to maintain what we may call the universal importance 
of the plays by their continual reference to the great controlling prin- 
ciples of life ; they were not unlike accompaniments of majestic 
music. They were of practical service, too, in cutting the play into 
various sections : thus, as has been said, the part before the parodos 




SATYR CHORUS REHEARSING. 



was called the prologue ; that between the parodos and the stasima 
was the episodion, and that after the last stasimon, the epodos. There 
was, however, no inflexible system that compelled all the plays to pre- 
serve precisely the same model. 

Besides these functions of the chorus there were in the tragedies 
many songs which belonged in common to both actors and chorus. Of 
these the most important was the kommos, a mournful dirge, sung al- 
ternately by both. This was generally an utterance of the keen sym- 
pathy of the chorus with the sufferings of the characters ; it was 
expressed according to the impressive scheme of strophe and anti- 
strophe and with accompanying dance, the whole producing an effect 
which is in good part lost upon the reader. In the older tragedies the 



234 GREEK DRAMA— GROWTH AND HISTORY. 

kommos was commonly at the end of the play; afterwards, in a some- 
what modified form, it appeared in the body of the tragedy, and it was 
free to assume the form of a sort of lyrical conversation in which the 
intensity of the feelings inspired the chorus with varying emotions that 
were expressed by small sections of the chorus in brief, disjointed 
utterances. In general, the history of Greek tragedy shows a constant 
diminution of the importance of the chorus ; the performance was 
steadily undergoing a change from an almost purely lyrical to a 
dramatic one. 

IV. 

The author of a tragedy who was anxious to have it acted had first 
to consult the leading civic official, the archon, in order to secure the 
services of a chorus. This having been accomplished, the poet cast 
the actors in the various parts and superintended the rehearsals in per- 
son, or made over the task to a teacher of the chorus, a man with the 
requisite knowledge and experience. Often, too, the poet acted in his 
own play, sometimes taking the most important part himself. The 
time for bringing out the plays was during the four or five days of the 
great Dionysiac festivals, and judges were appointed by the archon to 
determine the relative merit of the competing poets, and to confer the 
prizes. The custom was established by ^Eschylus of offering in com- 
petition not single plays, but a tetralogy, or series of four, three of 
which were tragedies, while the last was a satyric play of a lighter 
sort, that served the purpose of the modern concluding farce that re- 
deems the seriousness of unrelieved tragedy. The exact composition 
of the tetralogy is not clear to modern scholars; sometimes the three 
tragedies were closely related in subject, and represented successive 
divisions of one myth ; at other times there seems to have been no 
connection between the different members. The humorous tone of 
the first satyric play marked the frank acceptance among the Greeks 
of jest and seriousness, as we find it in Shakspere and his contempo- 
raries. Their union produced a total impression of harmony. 

The fragmentary state in which very much of Greek literature has 
come down to us leaves very many questions practically insoluble, in 
spite of the constant and ingenious examination that is applied to 
their study. The growth of the drama is obscure, as are many points 
in its most flourishing condition ; thus, for example, among the per- 
plexing questions that await settlement is that of the constructive 
symmetry in the separate plays. The refined and well-concealed art 
of the composition of the choruses is gradually unfolding itself to 
careful observers, but the particulars, though in the highest degree in- 



THE CONSTRUCTION OF THE GREEK PLAYS. 235 

teresting to students, are too intricate for exposition here ; it may yet 
be possible, however, to point out similar complexity in the formation 
of the plays, although the existence of such elaboration — like almost 
every thing else about the Greek classics, is a subject of hot contro- 
versy between angry scholars. In its most general form the statement 
is simple enough ; it is merely this, that one important law of the 
dramatic construction of the Greeks is symmetry. We observe it first 
in the dialogue, in which question and answer are equally balanced, 
and opposing arguments are held in impartial scales; and it is strongly 
suspected that a similar equilibrium is maintained in the longer 
speeches and scenes. 

The derivation of the drama from the lyric poetry which was com- 
posed in this way, with strophe balanced by antistrophe, and its various 
formal divisions, gives the hypothesis a priori probability, and the dis- 
section of various passages only corroborates it. It is also in accord- 
ance with every thing that we know of the history of their other arts, 
in which the notion of equipoise is very evident, as in the symmetry 
of groups in painting, in the pediments of buildings, and later in the 
pictures of mediaeval artists where the composition is most obvious. 
Thus, to explain by an example, the monologue at the beginning of 
the Agamemnon of ^Eschylus, which is uttered by the watchman on 
the roof, is divided into two parts by the flashing of the flame for 
which he was waiting. The first half, of fourteen lines, expressing his 
longing for this sign of the fall of Troy, is subdivided into sections, 
thus 4, 4, 4, 2 ; and the fourteen lines of the second half that express 
the joy of the return from that city are similarly divided. And what 
is here to be plainly seen finds itself repeated elsewhere, in other 
speeches and scenes, not in ^Eschylus alone, but also in Sophocles and 
Euripides. At the best it was not a rigid rule that can be verified by 
a pair of compasses, but one that suggests rather an involuntary 
adoption of the best method than deliberate measurement. Such 
however, is the secret of art that it appears like accidental simplicity ; 
whereas, in fact, all artistic accuracy is the result of enormous practice 
and effort, as any one who has seen a great master's preliminary sketches 
will readily affirm. In the same way, the laws of musical composition 
elude the observation of the untrained hearer, who perceives only the 
general effect without recognizing the scientific basis of this compli- 
cated art, and in literature it is held by many that any success is but 
the result of happy accident, or the miraculous product of genius, 
which is only a manifestation of the inexplicable. The underlying 
foundation of law, however, may be proved with regard to the other 
arts, and few can seriously maintain for any length of time that litera- 
ture alone is exempt from its sway. One of its manifestations may be 



236 GREEK DRAMA— GROWTH AND HISTORY. 

taken to be this of symmetry, and its long concealment may be taken 
as proof of the art which regulated it. 

Whether we accept or deny its existence, it is an interesting subject, 
and only shows the general obscurity that hides very much of the his- 
tory and construction of the Greek drama. If the supply were fuller, 
many of these questions would doubtless be capable of readier solu- 
tion ; as it is, we must here as elsewhere mourn the meagerness of our 
equipment, for what is left us consists of but thirty-three complete 
plays, seven by yEschylus, the same number by Sophocles, and 
nineteen, including one satyrical play, by Euripides. Of these the 
earliest is ^Eschylus's Persians, brought out 472 B.C., and the last is 
Sophocles's CEdipus at Colonos, first performed 401 B.C., a few years 
after the poet's death. Of the great number of tragedians (over sixty) 
only three, the two just named and Euripides, have come down to us 
except as traditions. Yet, fortunately, these three were by general assent 
the most important. To be sure, they at times were overshadowed by 
other writers, but on the whole their leading position was undeniable. 
Naturally enough, the highest honors were at different times of anti- 
quity variously given, as they have been transferred from one to 
another since the revival of learning. Thus, Sophocles was enormously 
admired during his lifetime, when ^Eschylus appeared antiquated, and 
opinion was divided concerning Euripides, and Aristophanes warmly 
defended ^Eschylus. Later it was Euripides who most nearly attained 
popularity by qualities that still divide his readers. In the last century 
^Eschylus was regarded as all that is barbarous and uncouth, and it 
was Sophocles with his technical perfection who was most admired. 
Since then men have learned to appreciate more warmly the stern 
majesty of the father of tragedy. He is the wisest who is capable of 
wide and generous admiration for all, and escapes the partisanship, so 
common in literary judgments, that regards it necessary to praise one 
sort of merit by decrying another. That these three men had some- 
what different qualities will be very evident, and is sufficiently ex- 
plained by their sequence in time. The remoteness and almost archaic 
dignity of ^Eschylus was inevitably succeeded by the artistic perfec- 
tion of Sophocles. A similar difference may be seen by comparing 
Racine with Corneille, and Sophocles was succeeded by Euripides with 
his accentuation of a more modern pathos, just as the followers of 
Shakspere, such as Cyril Tourneur and Ford, gradually intensified 
qualities that he presented with greater reserve. 

Indeed we may say that the most striking qualities of any writer 
are those which belong to him as the product of the period in which 
he lived, and that the differences between any two men living at dif- 
ferent dates may be determined with more precision by observing the 



LITERATURE SUBJECT TO LA IV — EVOLUTION. 237 

general condition of the occupation which busies them both than by 
examining their personal characteristics. And it is not merely the 
condition to which they brought, let us say, poetry, that is to be con- 
sidered, but rather the state in which they found it ; what they do 
with it then depends on influences outside of themselves, not on their 
personal choice. If we regard simply the words that they use, the 
statement is obvious enough. Every man employs the vocabulary 
that he finds awaiting him as he breathes the air of the room in 
which he writes; he does not, if an American, address his fellow- 
countrymen in Lithuanian, but in the language of his neighbors. He 
certainly may employ archaic constructions, just as at the present 
time writers of verse are fond of imitating old-fashioned French 
models of composition, but he will not do this unless it is necessary 
to find some new means of attracting the failing attention of his 
readers, and then the form which he chooses will be found to be one 
towards which general attention is turned. Thus, the widening of 
interests that accompanied the Renaissance required an enlargement 
of the vocabulary to find means of expression for new feelings, and 
Latinisms were freely added, as well as archaisms, revived by Spenser 
for example, who turned his attention to the allegorical romance of the 
middle ages, but the general influences of the whole period are dis- 
tinctly marked here, as they are in the contemporary modifications in 
dress, in architecture, politics and the fine arts. In the same way, the 
change at the end of the last century, which is called the Romantic 
revival, was witness of a similar influx of long-forgotten words and 
phrases that also bore witness to the general revival of neglected 
sources of inspiration in the once despised past. 

What is true of the mere matter of phraseology is true of the 
thoughts and sentiments. Exactly as ^Eschylus took the most highly 
developed literary form, the dithyramb, as the basis of his tragedies, 
the most exalted feelings of the Athenian mind found utterance in 
those immortal masterpieces, and when we acknowledge that what 
/Eschylus uttered with fervor and comparative simplicity became the 
subject of sophistical treatment at the hands of Euripides we shall 
be far astray in ascribing the change to the quibbling spirit of the last 
tragedian, and in neglecting to note the unfailing tendency of great 
movements to lose their force and breadth, and to disintegrate into 
subjects of what seems less inspired discussion, a change as sure in 
literature as any fact of physics. 

An apparent objection to this manner of regarding literature is the 
hostility that so often shows itself against inevitable change. If the 
modification is part of a widespread feeling, why did Aristophanes 
attack Euripides in his comedies, just as critics now sneer at unroman- 



238 GREEK DRAMA— GROWTH AND HISTORY. 

tic novels ? It may be answered, however, that the position which a 
man's work takes may be likened to a workman's place in the construc- 
tion of a pyramid. When we examine the past we can perceive the 
solidarity of all literature, as of the general progress of mankind ; the 
vast unity that is obscure when we are watching contemporary work 
becomes tolerably clear. We then see that there is nothing wilful in 
its course, however misjudged it may have been at the time. Then 
Wordsworth's return to nature was but part of the general rupture with 
decaying artificiality, which is as apparent in the French Revolution as 
in the changes in the furniture of drawing-rooms, or in the laying-out 
of gardens, between the reign of Louis XV. and the beginning of this 
century ; and the same is true of other seeming discordances in the 
history of literature, which as little needs the hypothesis of miracles 
as does geology. When men are watching contemporary work that 
has the quality of novelty, they are apt to be puzzled by its departure 
from the approved models, and they are prone to urge those who are 
in advance, who are working on the upper tiers of our imaginary 
pyramid, to come down and lay their brick where they were laid, in the 
face of similar opposition, by those who belonged to a past generation. 
Yet the only position which the workers can take is that which rests 
on what is already accomplished. The principles which their prede- 
cessors established have to be examined, amended, corroborated, or 
refuted. This is the law of life, and of literature which is but one of 
the many side, .of life, not a thing capable of becoming fixed at any 
one time in an immutable form. Hence in investigating the evolution 
of the dramatic work of Greece we are, as ever in studying literature, 
tracing but one of the manifold paths which the development of the 
mind of the time followed. Not only do the works of Sophocles and 
Euripides thus represent the thought of the period in which they live; 
they also form another instance, as we shall see later, of the tendency 
of great movements to subdivide into a vast number of minuter ques- 
tions which complicate and perplex society, just as a great wave of 
patriotism, when it animates a country, brings up for future solution 
numberless problems of legality, wisdom, and prudence. Our own 
history since the beginning of the civil war is a sufficiently clear illus- 
tration of this statement. 

To be sure, the number of Greek tragedies that we possess is but 
small in comparison with the vast number that has been lost, yet they 
are fairly representative of the magnificent abundance of that great 
period. 



CHAPTER II.— jESCHYLUS. 

I. — The Life of yEschylus ; His Part in the Persian Wars ; His Career as an Author; 
His Death. II. — The Difficulties in the Way of Our Comprehending the Greek 
Drama — Its Spectacular Effect with the Choral Dances — The Simplicity of the 
Plot Compared with Shakspere's Art — The Unities in the Greek Plays — The 
Absence of Love as a Dramatic Inspiration — The Flowering of the Drama in 
Athens, Paris, and London at a Moment of Victory. III. — The Earliest Play, 
The Persians — Its Presentation of Historical Events — An Analysis of the Play — 
The First Appearance of the Drama in Western Literature — The Prominence of 
the Chorus, and Diminutive Value of the Actors, and the Archaic Quality of the 
Infant Drama: Tableaux rather than Actions — Solemnity of ^Eschylus. IV. — 
The Seven Against Thebes Analyzed — The Mythical Plot — The Slow Growth of 
Dramatic Action. V. — The Suppliants — The Predominance of the Lyrical Ele- 
ment, the Crudity of the Dialogue. VI. — The Prometheus Bound — The Possible 
Significance of the Myth — The Dramatic Treatment — Its Apparent Irreverence — 
Our Meagre Comprehension of It. VII. — The Oresteian Trilogy, the Agamem- 
non, the Libation Poems, and the Furies, Analyzed — The Significance of the 
Dramatic Treatment of Alleged Legendary History — The Ethical Principle — 
The Simplicity of ^Eschylus — The Changes Wrought by Time in the Drama. 

I. 

/CSCHYLUS was born in Eleusis, a town in Atti x, 525 B.C. His 
l\^d father, Euphorion by name, belonged to a family that had long 
inhabited this town, which was the spot where were held the Eleusin- 
ian Mysteries, obscure rites that lent a solemn significance to many 
of the myths of the Greek religion. In all of the poetry of ^Eschylus 
there is prominent a lofty religious sense, which it may be fair to sup- 
pose derived some of its strength from his intimacy with the myste- 
ries. yEschylus took part in all the principal battles of the Persian 
wars. He was thirty- five years old when the battle of Marathon was 
fought, on which occasion he was severely wounded, and in the second 
Persian war he was present at the battles of Artemisium, Salamis, and 
Platsea. His brothers, too, fought in the same wars with noteworthy 
bravery. The epitaph which he composed for himself shows the im- 
portance that he placed upon his military prowess. He speaks simply 
of what he did as a soldier, without a word about his plays: 

" Athenian yEschylus, Euphorion's son, 

In his last rest doth 'neath this stone abide, 
'Mid the wheatfields of Gela where he died. 
Be witness to his valor, Marathon, 

And also may the long-haired Persians tell 
His courage which they knew, and overwell." 



240 



sE, 



At an early age ^Eschylus be: }r the tragic stage ; the 

story runs that he was called t( on by a dream at a time 

when he was guarding grapes. ] __ud to have appeared to 

him, and to have commanded him to devote himself to tragic poetry, 
but perhaps the many similar tales that are told of famous Greek 
poets would not pass careful examination by the Society for Psychical 
Research; this number, if nothing else, argues against their credibility. 
At first he found success difficult. He wrote in rivalry with Simonides 
an elegy on the heroes who fell at Marathon, and was defeated. In 
time, however, he secured a prize for his tragedies. The Persians is 
the earliest of the successful ones that has come down to us. In 468 
B.C. he failed to get the prize in competition with Sophocles, but ten 

years later he was more fortunate with 
the plays about CEdipus. The rela- 
tions between the two great poets 
were of a most friendly kind ; both 
men were unstained by jealousy or 
envy, and the influence of each upon 
the other appears to have been most 
salutary and inspiring. yEschylus's 
life at Athens was twice interrupted 
by visits to Sicily. His first visit was 
of some length, and was probably the 
result of an invitation from Hiero, 
who did his best to make Syracuse a 
place of literary influence by summon- 
ing thither men of renown from 
various parts of Greece. We have 
already had occasion to notice his 
relations with Simonides and Pindar. After returning to Athens and 
the success of the Orestes tragedy, ^Eschylus went back to Sicily, 
probably indignant at being charged with indecorous allusions in his 
plays to the Eleusinian Mysteries. He was acquitted, but the vexation 
could not be removed. Moreover, the new political conditions doubt- 
less disturbed so zealous a lover of the past as ^Eschylus, and drove 
him to what was almost exile in a remote Sicilian town. The manner 
of his death is again the subject of legend. It is said that while he 
was seated, pondering, on the rocks, an eagle carrying a tortoise in its 
claws mistook his bald head for a stone of a convenient size, and 
dropped upon him the tortoise, in order to shatter its shell. This 
singular fable inspires every feeling but belief. Perhaps the most intelli- 
gent suggestion concerning it is that it arose from misinterpretation 
of a memorial stone representing the eagle and tortoise as a symbol 




AESCHYLUS. 



THE MOTIVE OF GREEK TRAGEDY. 241 

of the spirit of the poet freed from the cramping bonds of humanity, 
cleaving the air like an eagle. Yet this explanation may be an ill- 
advised attempt to read modern imagery into ancient art. Whatever 
the cause of his death, the citizens of Gela paid him many honors, 
erecting a memorial over his tomb, which was long visited by travelers. 
At a later date the Athenians put up a statue in his honor, and 
encouraged every one who wished to bring out the plays of ^Eschylus 
by contributing from the public funds the expenses of the chorus. 

For forty years ^Lschylus composed plays for the stage, and he is 
said to have written ninety dramas, including twenty satyrical pieces. 
Of these, as has been said above, only seven have reached us. 



II. 

Before taking up the consideration of these plays it is well to remem- 
ber how very different were the conditions of the Greek drama from 
those of our own. Every theatrical performance rests on a number of 
conventions. In spite of many centuries of conscientious effort to do 
for modern times what the great tragedians had done for Greece, even 
the most faithful work, as in the French classical tragedy, leaves the 
original Greek drama incomprehensible, and can not itself be intelli- 
gently enjoyed by foreigners. If the rest of the world find even Racine 
and Corneille remote from their interest, when those two great men 
drew their inspiration from a study of the classics, and especially of 
the Latin classics, which have formed the groundwork of all literary 
cultivation for many hundreds of years, and from their own civilization, 
which may certainly be readily understood, how readily we may ex- 
plain the difficulties which stand in the way of sympathetic compre- 
hension of the Greek drama ! This bore close relations with a religion 
that is far removed from our own experience or intelligent conception, 
and, moreover, it rested on certain fundamental notions which not only 
do not exist for us, but also elude our study. These differences em- 
barrass us at every step ; we use the same words with other meanings 
when we undertake to describe the Greek stage, and, for example, make 
mention of the musical accompaniment of the choruses. We do not 
understand clearly what the Greek music was and what it meant for 
the Greeks, yet it was this combination of words, music, and dance that 
formed the Hellenic drama. With us, a play is something so unlike 
the architectural composition of that race that we are continually baf- 
fled. W T hen we read a Greek tragedy we get but a small part of the 
total impression. Those who have seen one of those masterpieces 
acted, even under the modern conditions of preserving the actors' faces 



242 MSCHYLUS. 

unhidden by masks and without the choral dances, have had an oppor- 
tunity to get a much fuller insight into the general method of the 
tragedians than any poring over the text could give. Yet even they 
have but an incomplete perception of the whole, which was an effort 
to represent human life by a combination of all the existing arts. The 
exclusion of the actor's personality, the majestic poses of the elevated 
and enlarged figures, formed a sort of mobile sculpture ; the lyric part 
formed the chorus, and in the predominance given to narration we may 
perhaps see the influence of the epic poetry brought into union with 
the other brilliant product of the Greek mind. The whole was made 
up of a spectacular effect, which is lost to us, in combination with 
what we understand by a dramatic effect. This last, bearing a burden 
shared by allied arts, often lacked some of the movement that is re- 
quired of the drama in modern times. Often we notice its slow, majes- 
tic march, its lack of action, which for the Greeks was atoned for by 
the music and dance. We can understand their method by recalling 
our tolerance of undramatic slowness in an opera or an oratorio. In 
the opera what has faded into the twinkling beauty of a ballet was 
rendered by movements of dignity and grace that recalled to the spec- 
tators a host of feelings connected with their most solemn recollec- 
tions. The music was subordinate to the words, but it was an impor- 
tant part of an impressive whole. Obviously, the ancient tragedy could 
rest on a very simple foundation ; the complexity of its means of ex- 
pression permitted a certain meagreness of plot ; it was, one might 
almost say, an excuse for long epic and lyrical treatment, and did not, 
like the modern drama, depend on a complicated action to arouse the 
spectators' attention. Instead of an intrigue it chose a single fact or a 
short sequence of facts, and simplified the action where the modern 
drama would expand and complicate it. 

If we compare the Greek tragedians with Shakspere the difference 
is at once clear ; the ancient poet, taking a plot already perfectly 
familiar, or even trite, selected but an episode and of that episode 
merely the crisis, the most vivid moment ; while, on the other hand, 
in Shakspere what would form the whole subject of the Greek play 
becomes merely the denouement, and all the earlier part of the tragedy 
is devoted to expounding and preparing the final consummation. This 
difference, it will be noted, is a very great one, and it demands very 
different treatment by the poet, besides inspiring very different feel- 
ings in the spectator or reader. We see at once what novel importance 
is given in the modern play to complexity of plot and the study of 
character, how priests and kings are elbowed by clowns and boors, how 
incident and passion are crowded together, all being traits that would 
have distracted the Greek, for whom a tragedy was a rounded, harmo- 



CONTRASTING QUALITIES OF GREEK AND MODERN DRAMA. 243 

nious work of art, that moved in an ideal region into which nothing 
ignoble could intrude. 

This is, after all, the main difference between the Greek tragedy and 
what we call our own, although the Shaksperian tragedy is quite as 
obsolete as that of ^Eschylus, and it is a difference that the incompe- 
tence of the human mind to see more than a single face of the truth 
makes almost world-wide. It is certainly only labelled, not defined or 
explained, when we say that the art of ^Eschylus is idealism and that of 
Shakspere realism. Indeed, even if we accept these words provision- 
ally, we must acknowledge that there is much in the work of the En- 
glish tragedy that is not aptly described by any such term. In the 
Greek tragedies, the dignity of the language, its remoteness from that 
of common life, and the general nature of the plan of the plays, with 
the prominence given to the chorus, form something which is far re- 
moved from a picture of human life. The origin of the drama in the 
early ritual helps to account for this fact, and it long preserved the 
tragedies from what would have seemed an indecorous perversion of a 
great religious function. Then, too, the indifference which the Greeks 
felt for any undue prominence of individuality undoubtedly made im- 
possible any exaggeration of mere personal characteristics. In 
Shakspere we may observe the combination of two distinct currents, 
that of the Renaissance, and that of mediaevalism. The first, certainly, 
was not affected by realism ; it was essentially an aristocratic move- 
ment, while the quality of mediaevalism, which is represented in the 
Elizabethan plays by clowns, buffoons, grave-diggers, or the populace, 
is distinctly democratic. What was inspired by the Renaissance is as 
conventional as any one could desire ; the influence of the artificial 
romances is continually apparent, not merely in the exaggerations and 
extravagant language, but in the very vigor of phrase which burns in 
our memory. Hence to speak of Shakspere as a realist requires that 
the statement be corrected, for it contains only a fragment of the 
truth. All the later literature of the Renaissance is increasingly void 
of realism ; it has been left for modern times to witness its growth. 
Let us remember, however, that the two qualities, idealism and 
realism, do not demand that they be drawn up in battle-array against 
each other ; both require to be acknowledged and to be understood. 
It is a meager philosophy that finds in even marked difference nothing 
but hostility. 

Yet it is to be noticed that just as the early modern writers about 
dramatic literature, as well as the contemporary tragedians, gave by 
precept and example a great rigidity to the rules of the three unities 
of time, place, and action, that was unknown to the Greeks themselves, 
so we are accustomed to read into the construction of their plays an 



244 MSCHYLUS. 

excessive rigidity of conventions that exists only in our imaginations, 
that is an academic verdict handed down from one generation to. 
another. Undeniably a great part of our conception of the ancients 
is a one-sided opinion, in which the authority of their statues in ex- 
pressing repose has had a very far-reaching influence. In their plays 
there are moments of superb dramatic outburst that effectually destroy 
the mistaken notion that their dramatic works are pallid monuments 
of alternate recitation ; flashes of life as intense as any thing in litera- 
ture stand out in bold relief against the much argumentation that is 
remote from our interests. Yet it was the coldness of the ancient 
plays, their use of narration to describe tragic incidents, the abuse of 
the device of having emotions expressed to a confidant, that found the 
most persistent imitation in the pseudo-classic drama of the Renais- 
sance, for after all it is easier to copy another's faults than his merits. 
Another point of contrast between the ancient and the modern 
dramatic literature remains to be pointed out, and this is the position 
of women. The Greeks knew nothing of the modern conception of 
love, with its enthusiasm, and one may almost say idolatry, dating 
from the middle ages, and gallantry is the last thing to be found in their 
plays. Indeed, they excluded every form of personal relationship, 
which forms the very core of the modern drama ; their subjects drew 
them away from individuals, and from even such social life as existed 
in a community wherein women held a wholly subordinate position. 
The origin of the tragedy in religious , ceremonial wholly debarred 
such sacrilege, as it would have seemed to them, and turned their 
attention to old myths that knew nothing of such minutiae and would 
have been degraded by them. Yet, of course, even conventionality 
feels the influence of the time in which it exists, and in the plays of 
yEschylus we may see reflected the glory of a period in Greek history 
which was never repeated. The consciousness of the newly formed 
Hellenic nationality, and accompanying serious moral awakening which 
attended the momentous successes of the Greeks in the wars with 
Persia, are the animating principles of the tragic art of ^Eschylus, in 
the same way — the comparison is trite — that the new military and 
naval success of the English under Elizabeth, and the awakening of 
men's interests in the Renaissance, made its appearance in the flowering 
time of English dramatic literature, and that the consolidation of 
French power under Louis XIV. inspired the plays of Corneille and 
Racine. Remembering that literature is but one expression of the 
thought of a time, we see that it is simply the resultant of the various 
forces, past and present, whereof the spirit of that time is formed. 
No genius, however brilliant, can do more than arrange the material 
that this shall offer, in a manner that is not created by him, but is itself 



THE PERSIANS— INCIDENTS OF THE PLA Y. 



245 



derived from attendant influences. Still it must be remembered that 
these views in no way diminish the value of the man who gives utter- 
ance to the sentiments that affect the generation to which he belongs; 
he must obviously possess the quality that is not defined when it is 
called genius, but the way in which this shall find expression depends 
on the accompanying circumstances, just as the language in which an 
orator shall speak depends on many things over which he has no 
control. 

III. 

Obviously the Persians, which is the only historical play that we 
possess, is distinguished by some qualities that are not to be found in 
the other mythical plays that have reached us. The poet described 
contemporary events in which he had himself taken part, but with an 




J 



PERSIAN SATRAP. 



absence of hostility and partiality that is most admirable. Possibly he 
was induced to undertake the task by the success of Phrynichus with 
his play, the Phoenicians, which treated of the defeat of Xerxes, and 
was brought out two years after the battle of Salamis. Six years later 
the Persians was brought out, in 472 B. C. 

The scene of the play is laid in the home of the Persian kings, near 
the royal tombs. The chorus opens the tragedy with a song in which 
it enumerates the enormous hordes that had marched forth to conquer 
Greece, and expresses its fears lest they should all be doomed to de- 
struction. The chorus consists of old men, the dignitaries of the 
country, who are full of anxiety lest some all-deceiving god should 
have tempted them forth to their ruin, 

" For Ate, fawning and kind, at first a mortal betraying, 
Then in snares and meshes decoys him, 
Whence one who is but man in vain doth struggle to 'scape from." 

When the chorus are about to take counsel together, Atossa, the 



246 ySSCHYLUS. 

mother of Xerxes, appears and recounts a dream which had terrified 
her in the previous night. Two noble women, richly clad, one in Per- 
sian, the other in Dorian garments, " both of faultless beauty, sisters 
twain of the same stock," had stood before her full of anger and about 
to quarrel. Her son had stopped their contest, and harnessed them 
both into his chariot. One proved docile ; the other, however, becom- 
ing violent, shatters the chariot and throws out the driver. Then came 
forth Darius, and Xerxes, when he saw his father, wailed and rent his 
garments. 

In this incident we have the first appearance of the dream, which 
was destined to become the perpetual nightmare of later tragedy, yet 
here it admirably serves its purpose of preparing the spectators for the 
future horrors of the play. Doubtless the awful significance of dreams 
was something that the audience felt more or less clearly, and as 
heaven-sent messengers of impending evil they held a position of 
solemn importance among dramatic devices. The chorus evidently 
thinks so, for it at once bids the queen to endeavor to pacify the gods 
with prayers and sacrifice. The queen, in the ensuing conversation, 
puts some questions to the old men about this Greece which her son 
has gone forth to conquer, and the poet takes advantage of the oppor- 
tunity to draw a picture of the freedom of Greece in contrast with the 
familiar despotism of the Asiatic monarchy. She begins with a ques- 
tion that Herodotus tell us was actually asked by Darius, and that not 
unnaturally galled the Athenians, namely, 

" But first, my friends, I wish to hear of Athens, 
Where in the world do men report it standeth ? " 

In the play, however, it must have called forth a grim smile of satis- 
faction on the faces of the spectators. There are, too, other little 
touches that must have delighted the audience. Atossa asks : 
" What shepherd rules and lords it o'er their people ? " 

To which question the answer is made : 

" They are not slaves of any man, or subjects," 
a remark which makes it clear that the Greeks perceived the essential 
point at stake in their contest with the Persians. This brief conver- 
sation is interrupted by the entrance of a messenger who brings tidings 
of the defeat of Xerxes : ' 

" O cities of the whole wide land of Asia ! 
O soil of Persia, haven of great wealth ! 
How at one stroke is brought to nothingness 
Our great prosperity, and all the flower 
Of Persia's strength is fallen ! Woe is me ! 
Tis ill to be the first to bring ill news ; 
Yet needs must I the whole woe tell, ye Persians ; 
All our barbaric mighty host is lost." 



LYRICAL POETRY AND THE DRAMA. 



247 



The defeat is then recounted in a lyric passage divided between the 
chorus and the messenger, as may be seen in this extract: 



Cho. 



Mess. 



Alas, alas ! Sea-tossed 

The bodies of our friends, and much disstained: 

Thou say'st that they are drifting to and fro 

In far out-floating robes. 
E'en so ; our bows availed not, but the host 
Has perished, conquered by assault at sea." 



In the use of this form of communicating the news we may see the 

enormous influence of the melic poetry 
upon the early development of the 
Greek drama, and we shall find other 
examples in abundance. The drama 
found ready at hand a language that 
had been brought to great perfection 
by the countless lyric poets, who 
had for centuries been busy in giv- 
ing ripe expression to complicated 
thoughts on a great variety of sub- 
moments. It was 
only gradually that 





the dramatic dia- 
1 o gu e grew up. 
The plays of Phry- 
nichus had been 
composed almost 
entirely of lyrics ; 
^Eschylus intro- 
duced the second 



jects, and their 
literary perfection 
almost overawed 
the dramatists who, 
at the beginning, 
were apt to choose 
the lyrical form as 
the most complete 
and hence the best 
suited for solemn 
actor, who should enliven the pre- 
vious dialogue between the single 
actor and the chorus, but, naturally 
enough, it was long before the inno- 
vation was perfected. The blending 
of the old and new methods may be 
seen in this play, for the lyrical intro- 
duction is followed by the messen- 
ger's narration to Atossa of the 
circumstances of the Greek victory. 
Yet such is the vigor of his recital 
that we scarcely notice that what we 

have before us is not dramatic action, but rather description ; we 
are told that such and such things happened, we see nothing 




FIGHT BETWEEN GREEKS AND PERSIANS. 
(From the frieze 0/ the Nereid Monument.) 



248 



^SCHYLUS. 



happening ; and here again we have another instance of the crudity 
of the beginning drama, and of its further dependence on the epic 
poetry with its full use of description. The last thing to be acquired 
was dramatic action, as it was the most difficult. In observing 
the growth of Greek sculpture we see the same slow attainment 
of the quality of action. 
The early statues of 



human figures represent 
a man standing solidly 
on both legs, the face 
wears a simpering ex- 
pression, and there is 
no faint indication of 
movement ; the figures 
are as firm as columns. 
Thus, in the statue of 
one of the soldiers of 
Marathon, we are evi- 
dently far from the full 
development of Grecian 
sculpture, and we notice 
the same unpliant bulk 
that characterizes to a 
less extent the contem- 
porary tragedy ; in both 
arts the movement was 
toward the capacity to 
express ease and fluid- 
ity in the place of rigid 
formality. This tragedy 
has an archaic stiffness 
when we compare it 
with later work of the 
same sort, but even this 
is impressive, and these 
are not criticisms that 
one makes on reading 
the play ; the account 
to the modern drama ; 






SOLDIER OF MARATHON. 

{From the Monument of 

Aristion.) 



of the battle of Salamis 
is full of dramatic in- 
stinct, and in the next 
song of the chorus, 
when the just-preced- 
ing anticipations of evil 
are verified, there is 
most impressive utter- 
ance given to the deep- 
est woe. When to us, 
remote in time and 
taste from the old 
Greeks, these songs, 
written in a foreign and 
difficult language, are 
yet burthened with a 
solemn majesty, we may 
in part judge of their 
impressiveness as they 
were sung with accom- 
paniments of music and 
dance before the men 
who had themselves 
taken part in the battle 
and had known the 
power of "this proud, 
usurping king of Per- 
sia." The conventional 
rhythmic movement of 
the choric dances must 
have supplied an ele- 
ment of majesty and 
dignity that music lends 






certainly, a dramatic performance in which all 
the conventions were of a solemn kind was only made more impressive 
by them. 

When the chorus following the messenger's narration has come to 
an end, Atossa brings an offering to her husband's grave, and the 



THE PERSIANS— XERXES' LAMENT. 249 

chorus entreats his shadow to appear. He at once complies with their 
request, and explains that the Persian defeat is due to his disregard of 
his father's warnings, and to his presumption in endeavoring to over- 
rule the sea by bridging the Hellespont — even now,in spite of civiliza- 
tion, similar instinctive dread of modifying the face of nature is not 
unknown — and he foretells the complete destruction of the Persian 
army. With warnings against wanton overconfidence he sinks down 
into the earth. The chorus then proceeds to utter a lament over 
their former power and glory under Darius, and bemoaning their pres- 
ent condition under Xerxes, when that king enters, a fugitive, in 
tattered garments, tortured by repentance and despair, and the tragedy 
ends with a wailing song, divided between the heart-broken king and 
his faithful counsellors. The long chronicle of the early possessions 
of Persia, when Darius 

" Ruled the isles 
That lie midway between the continents, 

Lemnos, Icaria's land ; 
Rhodos and Cnidos and the Kyprian towns, 

Paphos and Salamis, 

And with them Soli famed, 
Whose parent city now our groans doth cause," 

and many other places — the list is a long one, and full of names that 
only intensify the completeness of the Persian defeat — is broken by 
the sudden entrance of the desperate Xerxes in a manner that brings 
out most vividly the contrast between the past and present, between 
the former glory and the terrible defeat of the tyrant, who bursts in 
upon them thus : 

" Oh, miserable me ! 
Who this dark hateful doom 
That I expected least 
Have met with as my lot. 
How stern and fierce of mood 
Towards the Persian race 
God has displayed himself ! 
What woe will come on me? 
Gone is my strength of limb, 
These aged men beholding. 
Ah, would to Heaven, O Zeus, 
That with the men who fell 
Death's doom had covered me ! " 

The chorus take up the same wail of shattered hope : 

" Ah woe, O king, woe ! woe ! 
For the army brave in fight, 
And our goodly Persian name, 
And the fair array of men, 
Whom God hath now cut off! 
And the land bewails its youth 



25° &SCHYLUS. 

Who for our Xerxes fell, 

For him, whose deeds have filled 

Hades with Persian souls ; 

For many heroes now 

Are Hades-travellers, 

Our country's chosen flower, 

Mighty with darts and bow ; 

For lo ! the myriad mass 

Of men has perished quite. 

Woe, woe for our fair fame ! 

And Asia's land, O king, 

Is terribly, most terribly, overthrown." 

And the lamentation proceeds, growing steadily more piteous and 
uncontrolled : 

Xer. " Yea, beat thy breast and cry 

After the Mysian type. 
Chor. Oh, misery ! Oh, misery ! 

Xer. Yea, tear the white hair off thy flowing beard. 
Chor. Yea ; with clenched hands, with clenched hands, I say, 

In very piteous guise. 
Xer. Cry out, cry out aloud. 
Chor. That also will I do." 

And so it goes on in a crescendo of grief until they finally move off 
together, wailing and rending their garments. 

It is evident that the play does not contain what we understand by 
dramatic action ; we find rather, besides narration and the direct emo- 
tional appeal of the choruses, a series of what we may call tableaux, 
which make up in solemn impressiveness what they lack in movement. 
There is a grandeur in the vagueness of this and other plays of the 
same poet that verifies the comparison that is often made between 
-^Eschylus and Beethoven. As in the great master of modern music,we 
find in the tragedian the reflection of an important period manifesting 
itself by a direct appeal to the emotions through a sort of awful dig- 
nity, which is made only more impressive in both by the traces of 
early conventionality from which they both made themselves free. 
^Eschylus has more frequently than any poet the note of sublimity, 
and in this play it makes itself felt, as we see in some of the extracts 
just given from the lamentations of the chorus, in the complete pros- 
tration of the Persian power as a direct punishment from the hands of 
the gods. Their complete defeat is exalted into a manifestation of 
divine wrath, and the Greeks are elevated to chosen instruments of the 
anger of the gods. Certainly, this view of contemporary history, as 
an unfolding of the plans of the immortals, bears witness to an exalted 
nature in the poet, and to a lofty enthusiasm among his audience, and 
every thing in the play strengthens the impression, from the ominous 
misgivings of the elders to their final despair. Let us once more 
remember how much the play loses in reading, grand as it is, from its 



DRAMA TIC REPRESENTA TION— GREEK PRINCIPLES. 



251 



value as a spectacle in which the rhythmic movements of the trained 
chorus, with their careful gestures, served for a sort of dumb music to 
accompany the whole tragedy, as they were swayed by every emotion, 
and deepened the gloom by their continual sympathy. Their value 
as representatives of the nation is distinctly prominent, and they 
were treated, as the chorus at this time always was treated, as an im- 
portant adjunct to the mere mechanical setting of the play. A multi- 
tude on a stage is always an invaluable ally to the dramatist, and these 
being trained to reflect the deeper significance of the play by move- 
ment and gesture, they combined to form an accumulation of dramatic 




THE LANDING ARGONAUTS. 
{From the Ficosonicui Cist, Museo Kircheriano, Rome!) 



effect that must have been most inspiring. This distribution of the 
dramatic effect enables us to understand better the toleration of the 
masks on the faces of the actors ; we concentrate the attention on one 
or two figures. With the Greeks, every thing was subordinate to a grand 
general effect. 

The Persians was the second piece of a trilogy, of which the others 
are lost. It was in trilogies that the tragedies of ^Eschylus were al- 
ways presented, and it is fair to presume that there was some thread 
of incident or likeness on which the separate members were hung. 
Just what it was in this case escapes definite knowledge, but possibly 



252 ^.SCHYLUS. 

those are right who boldly conjecture that in the Phineus, which was 
the name of the first piece of the trilogy, there may have been some 
indication of the early conflict between Europe and Asia. Phineus, 
according to the old mythology, entertained the Argonauts on their 
way to Colchis, and foretold to them their future adventures, and in 
his prophecies, it is thought by some, he may have mentioned the 
future wars. In the supposed third piece of the trilogy, Glaucus, of 
which a few fragments survive, the same bold constructors of an ab- 
sent literature imagine that in speaking of Himera ^Eschylus may 
have mentioned the defeat of the Carthaginians at the hands of the 
Sicilian Greeks, as another repulse of the barbarians. It is unneces- 
sary to point out that, if evidence out of the pure ether is wanted, it 
may be constructed without difficulty by the ingenious. The final 
satyrical play of the tetralogy was a Prometheus. 

While the Persians was thus a play that concerned itself with con- 
temporary history, it is yet to be noticed that in it the local color is 
not made over-prominent ; the Persian names that abound brought 
possibly no vivid sense of reality to the Greeks, and the general eleva- 
tion of the subject by the enforcement of its ethical significance, as an 
illustration of the divine power over the greatest human efforts, gave 
the play a universal importance. The absence of all exultation over 
the victory but added to the impressiveness of the lesson, and, in spite 
of the immediateness of the event, gave the tragedy a place alongside 
of those that dealt with the traditions of the dateless past, which was 
the more frequent inspiration of the Greek poets. 

IV. 

The Seven against Thebes, which was brought out in 476 B.C., car- 
ries us back to the remote regions of legend, but to a legend that was 
as familiar to the Greeks as is any story of the Old Testament to us ; 
indeed, part of our own intellectual inheritance from the Greeks is the 
knowledge of these very myths, which to them were packed with deep 
ethical instruction. It was part of the story of CEdipus that this play 
narrates, and the whole legend was one which the Greek dramatists 
were continually representing. This fragment of it is somewhat late 
in the course of the story; in discussing Sophocles we shall come to 
some of the earlier incidents. After CEdipus had discovered that he 
had murdered his own father and married his mother, he blinded him- 
self ; his two sons, Eteocles and Polyneices, at first kept him in con- 
finement, but this imprisonment made him angry, so that he prayed 
that they might divide with their swords the kingdom they inherited. 
To prevent the fulfillment of this wish they agreed to rule in alternate 



SUBJECT OF "THE SEVEN AGAINST THEBES." 253 

years, and the elder, Eteocles, was the first to rule. At the end of the 
year Polyneices came to take his turn, but Eteocles refused to listen 
to him and retained the government. Polyneices departed to Argos, 
where he married the daughter of Adrastos, the king of that country, 
and collected a large army under six great chieftains and led it against 
Thebes, where the seven generals posted themselves before the seven 
gates of the city. It was at this point that the play opens. It is inter- 
esting to notice, by the way, that it secured the prize for ^Eschylus 
over Aristias and Polyphradmon, sons of the early tragedians Pratinas 
and Phrynichus respectively. 

The play opens with a long address made by Eteocles to the citizens 
of Thebes, in which he encourages them to repel the threatened 
assault upon their city. A messenger then comes in to report that the 
enemy are making great preparations for the assault, and that the gen- 
erals are about to draw lots to determine at which gate each shall make 
the attack. Eteocles prays to the gods for their aid in defending the 
city, and then goes forth. Thereupon a chorus of Theban maidens 
enters, who are filled with terror at the perils surrounding them, and 
pray to the gods and goddesses for aid : 

" For now around the town 
The wave of warriors bearing sloped crests, 
With blasts of Ares rushing, hoarsely sounds : 
But thou, O Zeus ! true father of us all, 
Ward off, ward off our capture by the foe." 

Later they describe the din of the assault : 

" Ah ! Ah ! I hear a din of chariot wheels 

Around the city walls ; 

O Hera great and dread ! 
The heavy axles of the chariots groan, 

O Artemis beloved ! 
And the air maddens with the clash of spears ; 

What must our city bear ? 

What now shall come on us ? 

What end brings God to pass ? 
Ah ! Ah ! A storm of stones is falling fast 

On battlements attacked ; 

O Lord, Apollo loved, 
A din of bronze-bound shields is in the gates : 

And oh ! that Zeus may give 
A pure, decisive issue of the strife ! " 

Their wailings are interrupted, however, by the return of Eteocles, 
who with considerable asperity remonstrates with them for encourag- 
ing panic terrors : 

" I ask you, O ye brood intolerable, 
Is this course best and safest for our city ? 
Will it give heart to our beleaguered host, 
That you before the forms of guardian gods 
Should wail and howl, ye loathed of the wise? " 



254 AESCHYLUS. 

The chorus seek to defend themselves, but Eteocles persists in his 
overbearing denunciations until he departs to station his men at the 
gateways against the impending onslaught. His whole tone is signifi- 
cant of the contempt of the Greeks for their womankind. Yet his 
words had the effect of calming those to whom they were addressed, 
for after his departure the chorus describe with much more self-control 
the horrors attendant on the sacking of a city, more as if resigned 
to a cruel fate than as if hoping divine aid. Indirectly the chorus 
serves the purpose of pointing out the wickedness of Polyneices in 
thus bringing an army against Thebes, and the sympathies of the audi- 
ence are aroused in favor of Eteocles, who soon returns, accompanied 
by the messenger. The messenger informs him that the seven leaders 
have drawn their lots, and describes the aspect as well as the shield of 
each one. Eteocles in turn says which one of his own captains he has 
appointed to face the attacking leader. Three hundred and fifty lines 
are devoted to these alternate descriptions of the contending heroes, 
with brief songs from the chorus at the end of each one. The last 
mentioned is Polyneices, with whom Eteocles declares that he shall him- 
self contend, in spite of the entreaties of the chorus, who fear the worst. 

Here again it is obvious that it is not action which fills this play, 
but this statement, so far as it may be meant for an objection, falls to 
the ground before the fact that ^Eschylus hides the lack of movement 
beneath what is really the tragic core of the play, the feelings, namely, 
that animate the city : terror in the chorus and lofty bravery in Eteo- 
cles, which are subjects far better fitted for the elevating grandeur of 
yEschylus than would be any description of a bloody fight. The Greek 
tragedies abound with instances of the marked effect of the lyric verse 
upon the later development of poetry, and in nothing is it more marked 
than in the tendency to portray the effect of the incidents rather than 
the incidents themselves. Nothing is more true than that in literature, 
as throughout nature, changes are but gradual, that even those that 
seem most sudden are prepared by causes that were only hidden, and 
that growth and decay are the inevitable rule. No man, however 
great, stands elsewhere than on the works of his predecessors, and he 
is limited to a greater or less range beyond what they have done. In 
the descriptions of the various warriors we see traces of the Homeric 
influence, but this is given a later turn by the dialogue and the inter- 
vention of the chorus. 

After Eteocles. goes forth to face the fate which his father's curse 
has evoked, the chorus expresses its fears, and soon the messenger re- 
turns to tell them that it has been fulfilled ; the attack has been re- 
pelled, but the brothers have fallen by each other's hand. Their bodies 
are brought in, and the play ends with a brief lament. 



CONDITIONS AFFECTING THE DRAMA. 



255 



Yet a tragedy depends on the present as well as on the past ; the 
ground must be receptive, and the air propitious, or the seed withers 
without growth; and in this play we find the poet reflecting the 
patriotism of Athens, and the emotions called forth by the perils it 
had escaped from the Persians. Besides these general points of re- 
semblance, there were certain minor details which were not lost upon 
the audience. Thus, at the passage in which the messenger says, 
" He wishes to be just and not to seem," the tradition runs that the 
whole audience turned to look at Aristides the Just, in recognition 
of its applicability to him. Then, too, the fraternal contest portrayed 




DEATH OF ETEOCLES.AND POLYNEICES. 
(From an Etruscan Urn in Florence Museum.) 



in the play could not fail to serve as a reminder of the treacherous 
conduct of Pausanias and Themistocles in the Persian wars. 

The Seven against Thebes was the third play of a trilogy which re- 
counted the mythical story of the Theban king, but we find in it no 
summing up of the whole significance of the legend, but, in its place, 
a melancholy wail over the dreary end, and we receive a definite im- 
pression that the drama was yet in a comparatively inchoate state, and 
was not yet ripe for the full development of all its capabilities; we see 
this exemplified in the plays themselves, and there is no reason to 
doubt that what was true of the separate pieces was not true of their 
combination in a trilogy. All literature teaches us how slow of attain- 
ment is the fullest artistic treatment of any subject. What seems 
archaic in the construction and termination of the Seven against 



256 ^SCHYLUS. 

Thebes may be explained by reference to the newness of the drama, 
and to the extent in which the lyrical presentation overweighed the 
capacity for action. All the qualities are to be found in what ^schy- 
lus wrote, but a riper art was required to set them forth in their high- 
est value. The great prominence given to the chorus, to the description 
placed in the mouth of the messenger, indicate that we are back in 
the beginning of dramatic history. Obviously the drama did not 
appear at once full grown, but advanced step by step to perfection, 
and in ^Eschylus we see the ripeness of the language, and of the ex- 
pression of the emotions combined with simplicity of action. 

His most vigorous utterances lose much by translation, just as every 
fine phrase is weakened by misquotation. Every generation attaches 
to certain words a quality that is often lost with time. In Keats's 
" Ode to a Nightingale " the word forlorn had at the time the poem 
was written an aroma of unfamiliarity and novelty of which it has 
since been robbed by daily domestic use, and this single example of 
swift modification may indicate what two thousand years have done in 
blurring the impression that ^Eschylus made on his contemporaries. 
To the perfected art of the lyric poets he added an intenser meaning; 
what threatened to become a mere literary form was made by him an 
instrument for the study of the most baffling problems that at rare 
intervals in literary history, as in men's lives, are fairly faced. The 
origin of the drama in religious ritual gave it a background of univer- 
sal ethical significance — for the classical dictionary, with its list of 
indictable offences on the part of gods and goddesses, is as silent on 
their higher importance as is a modern biography on the loftier merits 
of the man or woman whose petty weaknesses are recounted at great 
length. ^Eschylus and his followers set before the Athenian public 
the eternal conflict between the divine rule of the universe and the 
impotent longings of humanity in such a way that the grandeur of 
the conflict is eternally true. His turbid eloquence, confused by the 
overwhelming brightness of the vision that dazzled him, is another in- 
stance of the absence of the last touch that only refining art can give. 

V. 

We find in the Suppliants another instance of the remoteness of the 
early drama from its later development. The date at which the play 
was written is uncertain, but its construction seems to show that it 
was one of the first pieces of ^Eschylus. As we shall see, the play is 
full of lyrical utterances ; the chorus holds the position of one of the 
actors, and the dramatic movement is at a minimum. The Suppliants 
are the well-known Danaids, or daughters of Danaus, who have fled 



THE SUPPLIANTS— PREDOMINANCE OF THE LYRICAL ELEMENT. 257 

from the shores of the Nile to escape wedlock with their cousins, the 
sons of ^Egyptus. They have sought an asylum in Greece, at the 
city of Argos, whence their ancestress Io had departed long before. 
The opening scene of the tragedy shows them having just disem- 
barked near sacred ground, offering most earnest prayers to the 
gods. To them comes Pelasgus, the Pelasgic king, whose aid the 
Danaids at once demand by reason of the descent from the Argive Io. 
The king hesitates between the conflicting claims of hospitality and 
of his duty to shun the war that his assent would probably excite. In 
his indecision he determines to appeal to the assembly of his people, 
and at his request Danaus, who holds as subordinate a position in the 




ARGOS WATCHING IO, IS BEGUILED BY HERMES. 
(Wall painting, Herculaneufii.) 

presence of his daughters as does the money-making father in a novel 
of American life, carries to the city branches as signs of supplication. 
The king bids the Danaids to remain where they are, trusting to the 
protection of the gods until he shall return, and then goes away. 
After a choral passage Danaus returns and announces that all has gone 
well ; whereupon the Danaids sing a long song of thanksgiving. 
Danaus, however, during their transports, has seen a vessel approach- 
ing from which a number of Egyptians land. He bids them to remain 
while he seeks the promised aid of the Argives, and after considerable 
delay starts off. In spite of his halting departure, he brings back 
Pelasgus in time to save his daughters, when the froward Egyptians 



258 AESCHYLUS. 

are hurrying them off to the shore. A long dispute arises between 
Pelasgus and the Egyptian herald, which terminates in a declaration 
of war, and the whole play ends with the songs of the chorus, in which 
they express their gratitude for the hospitality that is offered to them 
and their fears about the strife that is threatened. In defense of this 
lack of action, it is to be said that this play is but part, and probably 
the first part, of a tetralogy, and may thus be regarded as scarcely 
more than a first act in which the main lines of the rest are simply in- 
dicated. Yet, even with this explanation, it is singularly uneventful. 
It has, however, merits that give it another value than that of a mere 
fragment of a lost series of plays. The lyric portions show by their 
ease and flow how rich was that source of the drama, for they quite 
outweigh the dramatic dialogue. The importance given to the chorus 
makes it clear that what we have learned to connect with the stage was 
yet but dimly known, and that it had a formidable rival in the lyric 
song. Here is a passage : 

" May God good issue give ! 
And yet the will of Zeus is hard to scan : 

Through all it brightly gleams, 
E'en though in darkness and the gloom of chance ; 

For us poor mortals wrapt. 

" Safe, by no fall tripped up, 
The full-wrought deed decreed by brow of Zeus ; 

For dark and shadowed o'er 
The pathways of the counsels of his heart, 
And difficult to see. 

" And from high-towering hopes He hurleth down 
To utter doom the heir of mortal birth ; 

Yet sets He in array 

No forces violent ; 
All that God works is effortless and calm : 

Seated on loftiest throne, 

Thence, though we know not how, 

He works His perfect will. 

" Ah, let him look on frail man's wanton pride, 
With which the old stock burgeons out anew, 

By love for me constrained, 

In counsels ill and rash, 
And in its frenzied, passionate resolve 

Finds goad it cannot shun : 

But in deceived hopes, 

Shall know, too late, its woe. 

" Such bitter griefs, lamenting, I recount, 
With cries shrill, tearful, deep, 
(Ah woe ! Ah woe !) 
That strike the ear with mourner's woe-fraught cry. 



PRIMITIVE GREEK TRAGEDY. 

Though yet alive, I wail mine obsequies ; 
Thee, Apian sea-girt bluff, 
I greet (our alien speech 
Thou knowest well, O land), 
And ofttimes fall, with rendings passionate, 
On robe of linen and Sidonian veil. 



2 59 



But to the gods, for all things prospering well 

When death is kept aloof, 

Gifts votive come of right. 

Ah woe ! Ah woe ! 
Oh, troubles dark, and hard to understand ! 
Ah, whither will these waters carry me ? 

Thee, Apian sea-girt bluff, 

I greet (our alien speech 

Thou knowest well, O land), 
And ofttimes fall, with rendings passionate, 
On robe of linen and Sidonian veil." 




THE DANAIDES. 
(From a bas-relief in the Vatican.') 



In such passages as these ^Eschylus shows his readiest movement 
and his greatest facility. The perfection to which his predecessors had 
brought the lyric verse stood him in good stead when he thus enlarged 
its field, and secured for himself this important ally in dramatic com- 
position. The other constituents of the plays had to be gradually 
brought to maturity, this alone was found in a complete form, and thus 
threatened for a long time to outweigh all the rest of the play. Its 
sumptuousness made it a formidable rival, and the authority that it 
retained from its long success enabled it for a time to overbalance the 
cruder charm of the new and comparatively clumsy dialogue. Yet it 
was the dialogue that developed, while the lyric chorus continually 
faded away, just as the abstract qualities of the characters in this play 
were succeeded by preciser individualities. Indeed, it is by no means 
impossible that in the Suppliants we have the earliest of the Greek 
tragedies ; at any rate the internal evidence inclines in this direction ; 
all the archaic qualities of which mention has been made lead the 



260 JESCHYLUS. 

reader to suppose that he has here a very early, and probably the ear- 
liest, specimen of the Greek drama. The impression is also confirmed 
by the thoughts uttered in the play, as well as by the form in which 
they are set ; there is a suggestion of youthful simplicity which pre- 
sents a noticeable contrast to the magnificent strength and abundant 
wealth of the greater plays — the Prometheus and the Agamemnon, for 
example ; and the lack of individuality in the personages only makes 
the impression one hard to be shaken. The King of Argos is an ab- 
stract being, a mythological figment, and all the remoteness of personal 
interest that we are accustomed to associate with the dialogue of a 
Greek play is to be found in its full splendor here, as this extract will 
show : 

The King of Argos. 
" But say, what cravest thou, with olive-shoots 
New-plucked, white-filleted, upon our shrines ? 

Chorus. 
Ne'er to be slaves unto ^Egyptus' race. 

King. 
Doth your own hate, or doth the law forbid ? 

Chorus. 
Not as our lords, but as unloved, we chide them. 

King. 
'Tis from such wedlock that advancement comes. 

Chorus. 
Deny us, though ^Egyptus' race demand. 

King. 
A heavy task thou namest, a rash war. 

Chorus. 
But Justice champions them who strike for her. 

King. 
Yea, if their side was from the outset hers. 

Chorus. 
Revere the gods thus crowned, who steer the State. 

King. 
Awe thrills me, seeing these shrines with leafage crowned." 

At this point the dialogue is varied by the lyric song of the chorus 
answering the speech of the king, and throughout the simple dialogue 
bears all the marks of something not far above the condition of exper- 
iment. And the dramatic action is far more like the swaying of vast 
bodies than to any personal movement. The whole impression, how- 
ever, that is left on the mind of one who remembers the conditions, is 
of a deep and memorable sort. It is the awkwardness of a massive 
body that we are called upon to observe, not the clumsiness of an 
ill-managed. 

Yet even in this play, which has received less praise than any written 
by ^Eschylus, some of the dialogue is vivid and impressive, as in the 
scene between Pelasgus and the Egyptian herald. This whole con- 
versation reflects the admiration that ^Eschylus, with his contempo- 



THE LEGEND OF PROMETHEUS. 261 

raries, felt for a democratic government, and the contempt of the 
Greeks for the Egyptians, qualities that must have stood out in bold 
relief against the remoter, more abstract beauty of the songs of the 
chorus. The packed, incisive curtness of the dialogue was at first 
used almost tentatively, but it grew in time to be the more impor- 
tant part of the play with its greater vividness and intelligibility. 
Doubtless its compactness, every line being filled with meaning, gave 
to the spectators of the play a continual and delightful exercise in 
developing the many connotations. The dialogue was a continual 
intellectual exercise for the audience, and in its gradual development 
we may see how slow is the growth of simplicity. Direct speech is 
the last thing learned, and while the tragedy from the beginning 
abounded in remote allusions and rich poetry, the expression of the 
direct conflict of two minds in dialogue was attained only with 
difficulty. 

VI. 

While we have so far seen ^Eschylus struggling with the difficulties 
that clogged the path of the drama in its beginning, we may see in his 
Prometheus Bound his grand spirit treating with comparative ease a 
stupendous subject. That the play is probably one of late compo- 
sition is rendered probable by the facility of the style in which it is 
written, and by the subordination of the lyric to the spoken passages. 
The choruses are comparatively brief, and, more than this, they have 
a quality of grace that distinguishes more especially the later form of 
tragedy as it was developed in the hands of Sophocles. The subject 
of the play is the punishment of Prometheus for giving to men knowl- 
edge of the use of fire. We are at once in a region that is remote from 
our ready comprehension, and concerned with a subject that has called 
forth numberless most conflicting explanations. Many generations of 
men have been puzzled to know why Zeus should have punished Pro- 
metheus for teaching human beings the rudiments of the arts and the 
sciences. Still, the notion that the introduction of civilization was 
synonymous with the introduction of vice and misery is one that has 
at times seemed to be confirmed by observation, as truly as it has been 
commonly received without much thought in our own day. The 
Golden Age has for many centuries existed in the distant past ; not 
only Hesiod, but Virgil and Horace, expressed this view, and the 
beginning of its decay is very recent. Only the study of savage races 
has made it plain that barbarism, instead of being, as poets sang, a 
period of happy, guileless innocence, is really one of terror and anxiety. 
Yet the belief in the greater virtue of the past dies hard, as is shown 



262 yESCHYLUS. 

by Mr. Ruskin's recent wail over the evil effects of coal smoke upon 
the English people and the clouds. For ^Eschylus, however, the myth 
already existed, and the first thing demanded of him was that he should 
not wantonly alter it, and the fact that as it stood the legend required 
of Prometheus to suffer for his benefactions to humanity furnished at 
once a tragic subject that appealed to every emotion of piety and 
human dignity, as will be presently seen. 

The origin of the myth was long obscure, and called forth numerous 
more or less ingenious explanations. Some maintained that Prome- 
theus himself was nothing but an amplification of a forgotten, unim- 
portant person, an Egyptian ruler who built dykes against the inunda- 
tions of the Nile, an explanation that must have been most gratifying to 
those unreasonable persons who were averse to reading too much 
religious feeling into the myths. In the middle of the seventeenth 
century the interest of the age in love-stories inspired one writer to 
detect in the Titan a jilted lover, the anguish of whose bleeding heart 
suggested the liver torn by an eagle. Religious explanations have been 
very frequently made, and it has been supposed that the self-sacrifice 
of Prometheus was in fact an unconscious prophecy of the Christian 
dogma of the redemption of the world. Certainly the coincidences are 
most striking and interesting, much more so than the veiled scientific 
instruction which other critics have tried to unfold from the pages of 
the tragedy. Those, however, who have conjectured that the play was 
really a lesson in astronomy, for example, have had but a small follow- 
ing. The explanation of the strife between Zeus and Prometheus as 
a vague recollection of the contest between the later Aryan invaders 
of Greece and those who were already in possession of the soil still 
demands other recommendations than its ingenuity. 

Yet while the myth when examined directly was obscure and baf- 
fling, its secret history became known in the light of comparative 
mythology, and in the earliest Sanskrit literature was found the miss- 
ing link to its explanation. Prometheus is but the Greek name of the 
Sanskrit pramantha, a fire-drill (later pramathyus), the name given to 
the pointed stick by rotating which against a circular disk of wood fire 
would be produced. The name of this useful instrument which first 
gave fire to men was personified into that of the Titan who stole it 
from the gods, and in this tragedy we find narrated one of the very 
earliest steps of humanity toward civilization, a step that had been 
taken in remote antiquity, but had left its mark in the picturesque 
mythology of India and Greece. 

Thus the Greeks were free to draw their subjects from these abun- 
dant legends, as well as from solemn events of recent history, although 
the legendary age was that from which they made by far the most fre- 



THE LEGEND OF PROMETHEUS. 263 

quent selections. No one of them, however, came near ^Eschylus in 
the free handling of what may be called divine myths ; their splendor, 
their vastness and loftiness, appealed directly to what was colossal in 
his imagination. 

At the opening of the play Prometheus is brought in chains by two 
giants, Strength and Force, to a mountain in the Caucasus, or, more 
exactly, in European Scythia, which stood for the remotest end of 
the earth. Hephaestus accompanies them to chain Prometheus to the 
rock, according to the commands of Zeus. As they enter the stage, 
Strength says : 

" Lo ! to a plain, earth's boundary remote, 
We now are come, — the tract as Skythian known, 
A desert inaccessible : and now, 
Hephasstos, it is thine to do the hests 
The Father gave thee, to these lofty crags 
To bind this crafty trickster fast in chains 
Of adamantine bonds that none can break." 

Hephaestus does their bidding, but reluctantly: 

* 
" Against my will, 
I fetter thee against thy will with bonds 
Of bronze that none can loose, to this lone height 
Where thou shalt know nor voice nor face of man, 
But, scorching in the hot blaze of the sun, 
Shalt lose thy skin's fair beauty. Thou shalt long 
For starry-mantled night to hide day's sheen, 
For sun to melt the rime of early dawn ; 
And evermore the weight of present ill 
Shall wear thee down. Unborn as yet is he 
Who shall release thee : this the fate thou gain'st 
As due reward for thy philanthropy. 
For thou, a god not fearing wrath of gods, 
In thy transgression gav'st their power to men ; 
And therefore on this rock of little ease 
Thou still shalt keep thy watch, nor lying down, 
Nor knowing sleep, nor ever bending knee ; 
And many groans and wailings profitless 
Thy lips shall utter ; for the mind of Zeus 
Remains inexorable. Who holds a power 
But newly gained is ever stern of mood." 

Then, urged by Strength, Hephaestus proceeds to his stern task, 
under compulsion and reluctantly. Thus Strength says: 

" Now drive the stern jaw of the adamant wedge 
Right through his chest with all the strength thou hast. 

HEPHiESTOS. Ah me ! Prometheus, for thy woes I groan. 

Strength. Again, thou'rt loth, and for the foes of Zeus 

Thou groanest : take good heed to it lest thou 
Ere long with cause thyself commiserate." 

All the work of riveting and chaining Prometheus to the rock was 



264 MSCHYLUS. 

evidently performed on the stage with relentless thoroughness, yet 
the Titan utters no groan. The misery that he suffered is only ex- 
pressed by the impotent pity of Hephaestus. When the executioners 
have gone away, and the taunts of Strength have come to an end, 
Prometheus at last gives utterance to his misery. His long silence 
in the presence of his tormentors, in part a result of a convention 
of the Greek drama that forbade three actors to speak together on 
the stage, and in part a frequent device of ^Eschylus to make the 
long-expected words, when uttered, more impressive, kept the audi- 
ence impatient till he should at last open his mouth. This he does 
with utterance of a lyric outburst of marvellous beauty : 

" Thou firmament of God, and swift-winged winds, 
Ye springs of rivers, and of ocean waves 
Thou smile innumerous ! Mother of us all, 

Earth, and Sun's all-seeing eye, behold, 

1 pray, what I a god from gods endure. 
Such doom the new-made monarch of the Blest 

Hath now devised for me. 
Woe, woe ! The present and th' oncoming pang 

I wail, as I search out 
The place and hour when end of all these ills 

Shall dawn on me at last. 
What say I ? All too clearly I foresee 
The things that come, and nought of pain shall be 
By me unlooked for ; but I needs must bear 
My destiny as best I may, knowing well 
The might resistless of Necessity. 
And neither may I speak of this my fate, 
Nor hold my peace. For I, poor I, through giving 
Great gifts to mortal men, am prisoner made 
In these fast fetters; yea, in fennel stalk 
I snatched the hidden spring of stolen fire, 
Which is to men a teacher of all arts, 
Their chief resource. And now this penalty 
Of that offense I pay, fast riveted 
In chains beneath the open firmament." 

At this point sweet perfumes and the rustling of wings announce 
the approach of some divine being, whom he awaits with terror : 

" Is it of God or man, or blending both ? 
And has one come to this remotest rock 
To look upon my woes? Or what wills he ? 
Behold me bound, a god to evil doomed, 

The foe of Zeus, and held 

In hatred by all gods 

Who tread the courts of Zeus : 

And this for my great love, 

Too great, for mortal men." 

This fear, which is yet not despair, is dispelled by the appearance of 
the Oceanides, who are friendly deities and come to console him in his 




COLOSSAL BUST OF OCEAN. 



266 ^SCHYLUS. 

sufferings. In a lyric passage he describes what he has done and how 
he has been punished, his gloomy words being continually interrupted 
by the gentle and sympathetic consolations of the chorus. The whole 
scene brings out the lofty generosity of the Titan and his solemn fear- 
lessness. One episode is the arrival of Ocean himself, who brings cold 
comfort by showing Prometheus how he suffers by his own fault : 

" Lo ! this, Prometheus, is the punishment 
Of thine o'er-lofty speech, nor art thou yet 
Humbled, nor yieldest to thy miseries, 
And fain would'st add fresh evils unto these." 

This species of consolation reminds one of Eliphaz the Temanite to 
Job (xv. 5, 6) : " For thy mouth uttereth thine iniquity, and thou 
choosest the tongue of the crafty. 

" Thine own mouth condemneth thee, and not I : yea, thine own lips 
testify against thee." 

Indeed, in these early productions of the Hellenic and Semitic 
minds, we may observe certain points of contact as well as very dis- 
tinct differences. 

When Prometheus has rid himself of the presence of Ocean, the 
chorus, in a lyric passage, give expression to their grief, to which 
Prometheus answers with a long speech, in which he draws a singularly 
exact picture of what modern science has shown to be the life of men 
in the Stone Age : 

" Like forms 
Of phantom-dreams, throughout their life's whole length 
They muddled all at random ; did not know 
Houses of brick that catch the sunlight's warmth, 
Nor yet the work of carpentry. They dwelt 
, In hollowed holes like swarms of tiny ants, 
In sunless depths of caverns ; and they had 
No certain signs of winter, nor of spring, 
Flower-laden, nor of summer with her fruits ; 
But without counsel fared their whole life long, 
Until I showed the risings of the stars, 
And settings hard to recognize. And I 
Found Number for them, chief of all the arts, 
Groupings of letters, Memory's handmaid that, 
And mother of the Muses." 

Yet, although the description might make it seem as if the same 
story were gone over with undesirable repetition, this fault can not be 
justly said to exist. Every new scene throws light on a new side of 
Prometheus ; he shows that Zeus was ungrateful as well as tyrannical, 
and he brings out more strongly his consciousness of rectitude when 
he declines with firmness the advice which Ocean gives him that he 
should let the clemency of the father of the gods be sought. With a 



PROMETHEUS' S DEFIAXCE— PROPHECIES. 267 

severity that comes near the irony of humor, he suggests that Ocean 
might incur the wrath of Zeus by interference, and that god takes 
himself away speedily. The Oceanides themselves, who are first over- 
whelmed with pity at the recital of his sufferings, are soon intimidated 
by his audacity. The loneliness of Prometheus is made most vivid. 
The author's method should be noticed ; in this severest of tragedies 
we are on the very border-lines of comedy, somewhat as we often are 
in Shakspere. yEschylus had no difficulty in being natural, even 
when writing a tragedy, and the directness of speech which we fre- 
quently find in his plays — indeed it was characteristic of Sophocles as 
well — shows how independent were those writers of the rules that have 
since lent additional gloom to tragedy. 

Yet when Ocean has speedily abandoned his notion of interference 
at the suggestion of possible peril for himself, the Oceanides remain, 
and the tragedy resumes its lofty flow. Even these faithful friends, 
however, despair ; Prometheus is solitary in the universe, keeping to 
himself the secret of the future, while the chorus chant their regrets 
for his obstinacy and his excessive affection for human beings, which 
has brought him to this apparently hopeless plight. 

At this point there is introduced a new episode, which, however, un- 
like that about Ocean, wherein the character of Prometheus was further 
developed, foretells the remote solution that time will bring. Io ap- 
pears on the stage, changed into a heifer — although possibly this form 
was only indicated — lamenting the persecution she suffers from Zeus. 
As Prometheus was the victim of his hate, so was she of his love, and 
she recounts the terrible story of her distress to the sympathetic 
listeners. Prometheus listens to it, to the recital of her wandering as, 
stung by the gad-fly that was sent by Hera, she wandered over the 
world. He also foretells her further wanderings, and announces that 
by a descendant of hers in the thirteenth generation he shall himself 
be loosened against the will of Zeus. As suddenly as she came, Io 
disappears. Prometheus continues to foretell the future fall of Zeus: 

" Yea, of a truth shall Zeus, though stiff of will, 
Be brought full low. Such bed of wedlock now 
Is he preparing, one to cast him forth 
In darkness from his sovereignty and throne. 
And then the curse his father Cronos spake 
Shall have its dread completion, even that 
He uttered when he left his ancient throne ; 
And from these troubles no one of the gods 
But me can clearly show the way to 'scape. 
I know the time and manner ; therefore now 
Let him sit fearless, in his peals on high 
Putting his trust, and shaking in his hands 
His darts fire-breathing. Nought shall they avail 
To hinder him from falling shamefully, 



268 ^SCHYLUS. 

A fall intolerable. Such a combatant 
He arms against himself, a marvel dread. 
Who shall a fire discover mightier far 
Than the red levin, and a sound more dread, 
Than roaring of the thunder, and shall shiver 
The plague sea-born that causeth earth to quake, 
The trident, weapon of Poseidon's strength ; 
And stumbling on this evil he shall learn 
How different ruling is from servitude." 

And later, after the chorus have suggested that the suffering Titan 
may have yet worse pains to endure, Prometheus adds: 

" Let Him act, let Him rule this little while, 
E'en as He will ; for long He shall not rule 
Over the gods." 

When he has uttered this open defiance of the father of gods, a 
mood to which he has been gradually led from the silent resignation 
of the opening of the play, through his contemplations of the injustice 
of Zeus, Hermes appears. The words of Prometheus have not been 
lost ; his direct prophecy of the fall of Zeus has reached the ears of 
the king of gods and men, and Hermes is sent down to extort from 
Prometheus his fatal secret. The whole scene is aglow with fiery 
indignation, and no description can do justice to its vividness. ^Eschy- 
lus alone among poets can command such sublimity, which was begot- 
ten in him apparently by the unexpected victory over the hosts of 
Persia, by the complete overthrow of that power, an event which had 
all the appearance of a miracle, and exalted the feeling of reverence 
for the divine powers. Such an issue of what seemed a hopeless con- 
flict made over the existent world and elevated Greece from a subor- 
dinate position to one of vast power and responsibility. The first 
emotion that it called forth was awe, and its reflection is to be seen 
throughout the work of ^Eschylus, and nowhere more distinctly than 
in this majestic play, which treats the most tremendous problems. 

Here is the passage, dimmed to be sure by translation, but yet with 
enough left to show the original force : 

Hermes. Thee do I speak to — thee, the teacher wise, 
The bitterly o'er-bitter, who 'gainst gods 
Hast sinned in giving gift to short-lived men — 
I speak to thee, the filcher of bright fire. 
The Father bids thee say what marriage thou 
Dost vaunt, and who shall hurl Him from his might ; 
And this too not in dark mysterious speech, 
But tell each point out clearly. Give me not, 
Prometheus, task of double journey. Zeus 
Thou see'st is not with such words appeased. 
PROMETHEUS. Stately of utterance, full of haughtiness 
Thy speech, as fits a messenger of gods. 
Ye yet are young in your new rule, and think 



270 



sZSCHYLUS. 



To dwell in painless towers. Have I not 

Seen those two rulers driven forth from thence ? 

And now the third, who reigneth, I shall see 

In basest, quickest fall. Seem I to thee 

To shrink and quail before these new-made Gods ? 

Far, very far from that am I. But thou, 

Track once again the path by which thou earnest ; 

Thou shalt learn nought of what thou askest me. 
Herm. It was by such self-will as this before 

That thou did'st bring these sufferings on thyself. 
Prom. I for my part, be sure, would never change 

My evil state for that thy bondslave's lot. 
Herm. To be the bondslave of this rock, I trow, 

Is better than to be Zeus' trusty herald ! 
Prom. So it is meet the insulter to insult. 
Herm. Thou waxest proud, 'twould seem, of this thy doom. 
Prom. Wax proud ! God grant that I may see my foes 

Thus waxing proud, and thee among the rest ! 
Herm. Dost blame me then for thy calamities ? 
Prom. In one short sentence — all the Gods I hate, 

Who my good turns with evil turns repay. 
Herm. Thy words prove thee with no slight madness plagued. 
Prom. If to hate foes be madness, mad I am. 
Herm. Not one could bear thee, wert thou prosperous. 
Prom. Ah me ! 

Herm. That word is all unknown to Zeus. 

Prom. Time waxing old can many a lesson teach. 
Herm. Yet thou at least hast not true wisdom learned. 
Prom. I had not else addressed a slave like thee. 
Herm. Thou wilt say nought the Father asks, 'twould seem. 
Prom. Fine debt I owe him, favor to repay. 
Herm. Me as a boy thou scornest then, forsooth. 
Prom. And art thou not a boy, and sillier far, 

If that thou thinkest to learn aught from me ? 

There is no torture nor device by which 

Zeus can impel me to disclose these things 

Before these bonds that outrage me be loosed. 

Let then the blazing levin-flash be hurled ; 

With white-winged snow storm and with earth-born thunders 

Let Him disturb and trouble all that is ; 

Nought of these things shall force me to declare 

Whose hand shall drive him from His sovereignty. 
Herm. See if thou findest any help in this. 
Prom. Nay, long ago I've seen, and formed my plans. 
Herm. O fool, take heart, take heart at last in time, 

To form right thoughts for these thy present w r oes. 
Prom. Like one who soothes a wave, thy speech in vain 

Vexes my soul. But deem not thou that I, 

Fearing the will of Zeus, shall e'er become 

As womanised in mind, or shall entreat 

Him whom I greatly loathe, with upturned hand, 

In woman's fashion, from these bonds of mine 

To set me free. Far, far am I from that. 
HERM. It seems that I, saying much, shall speak in vain ; 

For thou in nought by prayers art pacified, 

Or softened in thy heart, but like a colt 

Fresh harnessed, thou dost champ thy bit, and strive 

And fight against the reins. Yet thou art stiff 

In weak device ; for self-will, by itself, 

In one who is not wise, is less than nought. 



EXTRACTS FROM PROMETHEUS. 



271 



Look to it, if thou disobey my words, 
How great a storm and triple wave of ills 
Not to be 'scaped shall come on thee ; for first 
With thunder and the levin's blazing flash 
The Father this ravine of rock shall crush, 
And hide thy carcase, and its rocky arms 
Shall grasp thee tight and keep thee in thy place. 
And having traversed space of time full long, 
Thou shalt come back to light, and then his hound, 
The winged hound of Zeus, the ravening eagle, 
Shall greedily make banquet of thy flesh, 
Coming all day an uninvited guest, 
And glut himself upon thy liver dark. 
And of that anguish look not for the end, 
Before some God shall come to bear thy woes, 
And will to pass to Hades' sunless realm, 
And the dark cloudy depths of Tartaros. 
Wherefore take heed. No feigned boast is this, 
But spoken all too truly ; for the lips 
Of Zeus know not to speak a lying speech, 
But will perform each single word. And thou, 
Search well, be wise, nor think that self-willed pride 
Shall ever better prove than counsel good. 
Chor. To us doth Hermes seem to utter words 
Not out of season ; for he bids thee quit 
Thy self-willed pride and seek for counsel good. 
Hearken thou to him. To the wise of soul 
It is foul shame to sin persistently. 
Prom. To me who knew it all 

He hath this message borne ; 

And that a foe from foes 

Should suffer is not strange. 

Therefore on me be hurled 

The sharp-edged wreath of fire ; 

And let heaven's vault be stirred 

With thunder and the blasts 

Of fiercest winds ; and Earth 

From its foundations strong, 

E'en to its deepest roots, 

Let storm-winds make to rock ; 

And let them heap the waves 

Of Ocean's roughened surge 

Up to the regions high, 

Where move the stars of heaven ; 

And to dark Tartaros 

Let Him my carcase hurl, 

With mighty blasts of force ; 

Yet me He shall not slay. 
Herm. Such words and thoughts from one 

Brainstricken one may hear. 

What space divides his state 

From frenzy ? What repose 

Hath he from maddened rage ? 

But ye who pitying stand 

And share his bitter griefs, 

Quickly from hence depart, 

Lest the relentless roar 

Of thunder stun your soul. 
CHOR. With other words attempt 

To counsel and persuade, 



27 2 MSCHYLUS. 

And I will hear : for now 
Thou hast this word thrust in 
That we may never bear. 
How dost thou bid me train 
My soul to baseness vile ? 
With him I will endure 
Whatever is decreed. 
Traitors I've learned to hate, 
Nor is there any plague 
That more than this I loathe. 
Herm. Nay then, remember ye 

What now I say, nor blame 

Your fortune : Never say 

That Zeus has cast you down 

To evil not foreseen. 

Not so ; ye cast yourselves : 

For now with open eyes, 

Not taken unawares, 

In Ate's endless net 

Ye shall entangled be 

By folly of your own. 

[A pause, and then flashes of lightning and peals of thunder.] 

Prom. Yea, now in very deed, 

No more in word alone, 
The earth shakes to and fro 
And the loud thunder's voice 
Bellows hard by, and blaze 
The flashing levin-fires ; 
And tempests whirl the dust, 
And gusts of all wild winds 
On one another leap, 
In wild conflicting blasts, 
And sky with sea is blent. 
Such is the storm from Zeus 
That comes as working fear, 
In utter chaos whirled 
In terrors manifest. 
O mother venerable ! 
O Aether ! rolling round 
The common light of all, 
See ye what wrongs I bear ! 

This magnificent termination of what any one might be excused for 
calling the sublimest poem ever written, with the ringing cry of Pro- 
metheus as the earth closes over him, " O Mother venerable ! O 
^Ether ! rolling round the common light of all, see ye what wrongs I 
bear ? " must have appalled the audience. In these later days the 
various attempts which have been made to interpret what has seemed 
the heterodox view of Zeus as a remorseless tyrant, in some inoffensive 
shape, fail to solve the mystery, because there is too little ground for 
them to rest on. Inasmuch as the Greeks were not pained by the bit- 
ter denunciations of Zeus, we may feel sure that yEschylus was either 
justified by the legend, or that in the later play of the trilogy, of which 




FREEING OF PROMETHEUS BY HERMES. 
{Fragment from Pergamon.) 



2 74 ^SCHYLUS. 

the Prometheus Bound formed the second part, a solution was found 
that enabled the Greeks to endure the apparent irreverence. As it 
stands, the single play is but a fragment and the rest is in great part a 
matter of conjecture. A small part of the final number of the trilogy, 
the Freed Prometheus, has come down to us in brief extracts, but 
these are too few and in too crumbled condition to be of much use. 
The chorus consists of Titans, the relatives of Prometheus, who have 
been freed by Zeus from their imprisonment. Other characters 
are, besides Prometheus, his mother Themis, Heracles, and prob- 
ably Hermes. The Titans at the beginning greeted Prome- 
theus, who was yet in chains upon the rock, where every day 
an eagle devoured his liver. The answer of Prometheus is pre- 
served to us in a Latin translation given in Cicero's " Tusculan Dis- 
putations "; Prometheus endures his hard fate with resignation and 
longs for death, although he knows that he can not die. In this altered 
mood may be the secret of the solution ; Zeus has already shown clem- 
ency in his remission of the punishment of the Titans, and Prometheus 
bends under his long sufferings. The episode of Io in the Prometheus 
Bound was doubtless justified by the appearance of Heracles, her de- 
scendant in the thirteenth generation, who in some way secured the 
Titans' deliverance after slaying the eagle. Whether the proud spirit 
of Prometheus was broken, or Zeus of his own choice became clem- 
ent, can not be positively affirmed, but, apparently, some reconciliation 
was devised. Probably the generosity of Zeus was met by the sub- 
mission of Prometheus, who, it should be noticed, afterward wore a 
wreath of willows as a symbol of his sufferings, and the Greek custom 
of wearing wreaths at banquets commemorated this tradition. 

We can not sufficiently regret the meagreness of our knowledge 
of this play ; and conjecture is idle with regard to the way in which a 
poet like ^Eschylus treated the baffling questions and brought into 
harmony the discords of this myth. It is a hopeless task to reunite 
his missing tragedies, but what we know of his view of the universe 
enables us to form some notion of the way in which his mind must 
have worked. Doubtless, too, the vigor with which the sufferings of 
Prometheus are portrayed in the play that we have, served to bring 
out in a stronger relief the reconciliation of this apparently hopeless 
schism with the divine harmony. The more vivid the dissension, the 
greater was the poet's glory in appeasing it. The intensity of the dis- 
cord elevated the importance of the reconciliation, and the more 
doubtful this seemed at the end of the second play of the trilogy, 
the greater was the art of the writer who could at last bring it about. 



THE ORESTEIA— AGAMEMNON. 275 



VII. 



Fortunately one trilogy from the hands of ^Eschylus has come down 
to us, which enables us to see the relative positions of its component 
parts with one another, and the final harmony which sets right a long 
series of misdeeds. This trilogy is called the Oresteia, in spite of 
numerous efforts to give it other and more accurately descriptive 
names. The plays composing it are the Agamemnon, the Libation- 
Poems, and the Furies. The accompanying satyric piece, Proteus, is 
lost. It was with this magnificent series of plays that ^Eschylus com- 
pleted his work for the stage, and we are hence in condition to judge 
what was his ripest handling of the drama. We shall notice an ad- 
vance in the matter of form ; action takes the place of reflection as 
the subject of the plays, and with consummate art the poet calls 
forth various emotions in the spectator. The early predominance 
in his plays of the lyrical part is much modified, and, throughout, 
the style, while thoroughly impressive, has lost some of the exagger- 
ation which marked his earlier work. The three plays, we must 
remember, were yet shorter than Hamlet, and they were not given 
before men already tired by a day's work, but were presented before 
an audience that came fresh to the task of judging the masterpieces, 
and to one that differed from a modern audience in this, that like 
Shakspere's spectators it possessed the tolerance of spoken speech 
that men enjoy who do not diminish their power of listening by 
absorbing every thing through their eyes in reading. 

The first play, the Agamemnon, is the one that most immediately 
appeals to the modern reader. Its foundation in the mythical history 
gave it to the Greeks a significance which is to us a mere bit of liter- 
ary information, for the events described are but part of a longer 
series, the shadow of which lay dark over the opening scene of the 
first tragedy. Yet its tragic merit does not rest on this remote chain 
of circumstances alone, however much this adds to the impressiveness 
of the story. Already before the play begins, evil had accumulated 
over Agamemnon's head. The line of Pelops had inherited an irre- 
sistible tendency to deeds of violence and sudden death. Atreus and 
Thyestes, the sons of Pelops, left their father and lived at Argos 
with the king of that country, Eurystheus, after whose death Atreus 
became ruler, marrying his daughter. Thyestes seduced his brother's 
wife and was banished from Argos. But after a time, however, he 
returned to Argos, but clung to the altar, so that Atreus was afraid 
to kill him. Instead, he planned this trick : he put to death some of 
his brother's children, and, inviting him to a banquet, gave Thyestes 



276 



^SCHYLUS. 



his own children's flesh to eat. When Thyestes discovered this deed 
he cursed Atreus, saying that all his house should perish by a like 
fate. The children of Atreus, Agamemnon and Menelaus, married 
the daughters of Leda, Clytemnestra and Helen. Helen, it will be 
remembered, was the cause of the Trojan war. Agamemnon and 
Menelaus started forth to avenge their wrongs, but Artemis was 




SACRIFICE OF IPHIGENEIA. 

(Pompeiian wall painting?) 



angry with the brothers and forbade their ships to sail, and for a 
long time they remained at Aulis. At last Calchas the prophet 
announced that they could not put forth until Agamemnon should 
offer up his daughter Iphigeneia as a sacrifice to Artemis. After some 
reluctance Agamemnon yielded ; he sacrificed his daughter, and the 
fleet sailed. Clytemnestra, the wife of Agamemnon, was enraged 



ANCIENT AND MODERN IDEAS OF HEREDITY— TROY. 2JJ 

by this deed, and during her husband's absence she had sinned with 
^gisthus, the youngest son of Thyestes. This trilogy recounts the 
further horrors that beset this unfortunate family. Even this account, 
black as it is, omits many of the details by which guilt was amassed 
by this wretched race. The very name of any member of it recalled 
to every Greek a vast mass of evil-doing and of inherited suffering. 
Curiously enough, the modern doctrine that rests on a scientific basis 
replaces heredity in the position that it held as a matter of religious 
tradition among the Greeks. With them it had a supernatural force ; 
in these later days science has robbed it, as it has many phenomena, 
of its theological bias, but the facts remain, and are no less impressive 
for being proved inherent in the nature of things. 

With the opening of the Agamemnon, then, the audience found 
itself transported to the period of the greatest glory of Greece, when 
gods and heroes lived and suffered. This heroic past had all the au- 
thority of religious and historical tradition behind it, and the com- 
bination of the two was indeed impressive. All the most solemn 
feelings of reverence were nourished, yet without being trimmed into 
an unnatural, an artificial voidness of human interest. The Greeks 
enjoyed the same intimate freedom with their religion that we see 
inspiring the dramatic literature of the middle ages, but with this direct- 
ness of vision they combined of course an immeasurably superior intel- 
lectual power, by the side of which the mediaeval gropings for expression 
are but the prattle of children. And in the Agamemnon especially do 
we find the art of ^Eschylus in its ripest development. The trilogy 
was brought out in the year 458 B.C., and is consequently the latest 
of his work that has reached us. 

The opening of the Agamemnon shows us the courtyard of the 
palace of the Atreidae in Argos. On a tower is a watchman who for 
ten years has been awaiting the signal lights that should bring tidings 
of the fall of Troy. Suddenly, while he is speaking, he sees the fire 
flashing on the appointed height, and he knows that Troy is captured 
and that Agamemnon is about to return ; he hastens away to carry 
the tidings to Clytemnestra. The chorus of Argive elders makes its 
appearance seeking information about Agamemnon and his compan- 
ions. In their song they utter their forebodings of misery that might 
follow upon the sacrifice of Iphigeneia, so that the minds of the hearers 
were attuned for the swiftly approaching tragedy. Meanwhile prepa- 
rations for thanksgiving have been making, and soon Clytemnestra 
appears to explain the reason. She tells the chorus the good news, 
already betraying her self-will in her contemptuous treatment of them, 
but giving a magnificent description of the fall of Troy and of the 
announcement of its fate by signal fires. Here is the scene : 



278 



JESCHYLUS. 




Chorus. 
Thy station, Klytaimnestra, to bid bail, 
Hither I come. For just it is the wife 
Of royalty to honor, when the throne 
Lacks its male lord. But fain I am to know 
Whether on faith of happy news, or not, 
Thine altars blaze, propitiating hope 
That shall be. Yet speak not, if speech seem ill. 

Klytaimnestra. 
From night, its mother, as the saying goes, 
Fraught with glad tidings may the morn arise ; 
So shalt thou hear, excelling all thine hope, 
High news, how Argive spears Troy town have won. 

Chorus. 
What sayest ? Through lack of faith it hath fled mine ear. 

Klytaimnestra. 
The Achaians Troy have taken. Speak I clear ? 

Chorus. 
Joy wins my heart, and prompts the honest tear. 

Klytaimnestra. 
Thine eye bears witness to thy bosom's truth. 

Chorus. 
Hast thou sure tokens that thy words are sooth ? 

Klytaimnestra. 
Sure tokens ; if some god deceive me not. 



EXTRACT FROM AGAMEMNON. 279 

Chorus. 
Have flattering dreams this hopeful trust begot ? 

Klytaimnestra. 
I trust not, I, the thought of a sleeping mind. 

Chorus. 
Dost then believe some wingless presage blind ? 

Klytaimnestra. 
Am I a girl, that thus my words you rack ? 

Chorus. 
When did the Greeks the royal city sack ? 

Klytaimnestra. 
I' the very night whence springs yon dawning sun. 

Chorus. 
What herald hither could so quickly run ? 

Klytaimnestra. 
Hephaistos, forth from Ida sending light, 
Thence beacon hitherward did beacon speed 
From that fire-signal. Ida to the steep 
Of Hermes' hill in Lemnos ; from the isle 
Zeus' height of Athos did in turn receive 
The third great bale of flame. The vigorous glare 
Of the fast-journeying pine-torch flared aloft, 
Joy's harbinger, to skim the ridgy sea, 
Sending its golden beams, even as the sun, 
Up to Makistos' watch-towers. Nothing loath 
Did he, nor basely overcome by sleep, 
Perform his herald part. Afar the ray 
Burst on Euripos' stream, its beaconed news 
Telling the watches on Messapion high. 
They blazed in turn, and sent the tidings on, 
Kindling with ruddy flame the heather gray. 
Thence, nought obscured, went up the mighty glow, 
And, like the smiling moon, Asopos' plain 
O'erleaped, and on Kithairon's rock awoke 
Another pile of telegraphic fire. 
Nor did the watchmen there, with niggard hand, 
Deny the torch, that blazed most bright of all. 
Athwart the lake Gorgopis shot the gleam, 
Stirring the guards on Aigiplanctos' hill, 
Lest it should fail to shine, the appointed blaze. 
Kindled with generous zeal, they sent aloft 
The mighty beard of flame, that streamed so high 
To flash beyond the towering heights which guard 
The gulf Saronic. Thence it shot — it reached 
Arachnes' cliff, the station next our town, 
Down darting thence to the Atreides' roof, 
Child of that fire which dawned on Ida's hill. 
Such was the order of the beaconed lights 
Arranged before, and in succession swift 
Each after each fulfilled. The first and last 
I' the glittering race is victor. This the proof 
The signal which I tell ye, told to me 
By my good lord from Troy. 

Chorus. 

To the gods, anon 
My voice I'll raise, O woman ! Now to hear 
Thy words, and marvel to the end, I thirst. 
Please you relate, from first to last, the tale. 

Klytaimnestra. 
The Achaians Troy have won this very day. 



280 sESCHYLUS. 

A double din i' the captured city now 
Roars dissonant, I ween. Acid and oil 
Poured in one vessel mix not, ye would say, 
In amity ; and so, the diverse cries 
Of victors and of vanquished might ye hear, 
Confused, not blent, of triumph or of woe. 
For these, upon the prostrate bodies lying 
Of husbands, brethren, or of parents old, 
With piteous wail from throats no longer free 
Lament the fate of friends most loved of all. 
But those the rugged toil of the nightly fray 
Hath set keen-hungered to such hasty meat 
As the city proffers, in no ordered ranks 
Marshalled to banquet, but as each hath drawn 
The lot of fortune. In the spear-won halls 
Of Troy they revel — from untented frosts 
Rare change, and dews of heaven. 

********** 

At the end of her description of the sack of Troy she utters a note 

of warning : 

" Ah ! let no evil lust attack the host 
Conquered by greed, to plunder what they ought not ; 
For yet they need return in safety home, 
Doubling the goal to run their backward race. 
But should the host come sinning 'gainst the gods, 
Then would the curse of those that perished 
Wake, e'en though sudden evils might not fall." 

This threat, though ominous to the spectator of the play, was lost 
upon the chorus, whose dull perceptions are clearly indicated ; they 
only feel the joy of victory, and in a song they recall the origin of the 
war. Even in this, however, the mutability of man's fate is recalled : 

" Fame in excess is but a perilous thing ; 

For on men's quivering eyes 
Is hurled by Zeus the blinding thunder-bolt. 

I praise the good success 

That rouses not God's wrath ; 
Ne'er be it mine a city to lay waste." 

This is a part of the very text of the tragedy that is uttered uncon- 
sciously by the chorus, who are the last to have any understanding of 
the significance of their words. The notion of fatality, a note of 
gloomy foreboding, is continually appearing through this choral pas- 
sage, and silently preparing the tragic outbreak. The herald Thalthy- 
bios then appears, and, after giving expression to his own personal 
delight in getting home again, he confirms the good news. He does 
not omit the miseries of the long siege, and the misfortunes of the re- 
turning host, especially the disappearance of Menelaus ; this recital 
again reminds the timorous chorus of the woes that Helen has brought 
upon the Greeks. Clytemnestra has meanwhile appeared and inter- 



THE RETURN OF AGAMEMNON. 281 

rupted the conversation of the herald and the chorus to boast of her 
swift and accurate interpretation of the burning beacon-lights, and to 
urge the swift return of Agamemnon. Here the exposition of the 
play ends. We see that Agamemnon is flushed with victory and is 
about to return ; the future deeds are hidden, but ominous mutterings 
prepare the spectators for his bloody fate. The chorus alternates be- 
tween personal joy and the abstract contemplation of the vicissitudes 
of humanity, as in the last song mentioned. Thus : 

" There lives an old saw, framed in ancient days, 
In memories of men, that high estate 
Full-grown brings forth its young, nor childless dies, 

But that from good success 
Springs to the race a woe insatiable. 

But I, apart from all, 

Hold this my creed, alone : 
For impious act it is that offspring breeds, 

Like to their parent stock : 

For still in every house 
That loves the right, their fate for evermore 

Hath issue, good and fair." 

These words show clearly the great ethical importance of the Greek 
tragedy, and are of historical importance as marking the new interpre- 
tation given by ^Eschylus to the study of evil, which hitherto had 
been regarded as the wayward punishment of jealous gods, who cursed 
prosperity with an inevitable blight. 

While the chorus is singing, Agamemnon is seen approaching in a 
chariot, with Cassandra in another chariot, and doubtless his entrance 
was represented as a magnificent pageant, to make more vivid the con- 
trast between his present glory and his swift downfall. The chorus 
greet him, and he answers in a long speech. Then Clytemnestra enters 
to welcome her husband, which she does with the request that he will 
not set foot upon the ground, but only on the purple tapestries which 
she bids her attendants to lay before him. Agamemnon remonstrates 
against this ostentatious luxury, asking to be honored as a man, not as 
a god, but he is overruled, and yields to his wife's request. As he is 
about to enter the palace, he turns to direct that Cassandra be also 
kindly led in : 

" God on high 
Looks graciously on him whom triumph's hour 
Has made not pitiless." 

As Clytemnestra follows him, she pauses to pray of Zeus that he will 
fulfill all her wishes, and the stage is emptied except for Cassandra and 
the chorus. At this point the clouds thicken ; the chorus anticipate 
the impending doom that is about to befall the returning hero in a 



282 JESCHYLUS. 

song full of eternal abstract truth, as well as immediately applicable 
to the circumstances of the play : 

" Wherefore, for ever, on the wings of Fear, 

Hovers a vision drear, 
Before my boding heart ? a strain, 
Unbidden and unwelcome, thrills mine ear, 

Oracular of pain. 
Not as of old upon my bosom's throne 

Sits confidence, to spurn 

Such fears, like dreams we know not to discern. 
Old, old and gray, long since the time has grown, 
Which saw the linked cables moor 
The fleet, where erst it came to Ilion's sandy shore, 
And now mine eyes and not another's see 

Their safe return. 

Yet, none the less in me, 
The inner spirit sings a boding song, 

Self-prompted, sings the Furies' strain — 
And seeks, and seeks in vain, 
To hope and to be strong ! 

Ah ! to some end of Fate unseen, unguessed, 

Are these wild throbbings of my heart and breast — 

Yea, of some doom they tell — 

Each pulse a knell. 

Lief, lief, I were, that all 
To unfulfillment's hidden realm might fall. 

Too far, too far our mortal spirits strive, 

Grasping at utter weal, unsatisfied — 
Fell the fell curse, that dwelleth hard beside, 
Thrust down the sundering wall. Too fair they blow, 

The gales that waft our bark on Fortune's tide ! 

Swiftly we sail, the sooner all to drive 

Upon the hidden rock, the reef of Woe." 

Certainly the contribution to the drama from the lyric poetry was a 
most important one, and especially is it elevating in these pieces 
in which it blended with the dramatic part to form a harmonious whole. 
Thus what this song indicates makes itself perceptible in the cold in- 
solence of Clytemnestra, who returns to bid Cassandra descend from 
her chariot and to enter the palace. Cassandra remains silent and 
simply glares at her persecutor. When Clytemnestra has gone away 
the chorus try gentler words : 

"But I, for Pity sits in Anger's place 
Within my breast, will speak a kindlier word. 
Poor maiden, come thou from the car ; no way 
There is, but this — take up thy servitude." 

Thereupon Cassandra, who is cursed by the gift of unaccepted 
prophecy, bursts forth with cries to the gods, in so vivid contrast with 



CASSAAWRA'S PROPHECY— AGAMEMNON' S DEATH. 



283 



the gentle words of the chorus that the blood of the spectators must 
have been nearly frozen. No translation can do this passage justice, 
can do more at the best than say what is there ; to give it again in 
another tongue is impossible. Before her she sees her own death and 
that of Agamemnon, and all the woes of the house of Atreus, the fall 
of Troy, the end awaiting Clytemnestra ; with these visions are min- 
gled memories of her own happy childhood, the whole being animated 
with unutterable pathos. Finally she moves toward the palace to 
meet her doom, but starts back with renewed horror at the prescience 



r — i , — r 




:a ^^CGZCzzcjLicrm2cazcccco: 



t-CT-rrrrrm 1 1 1 h 




K-iit \\rw% 



MURDER OF AGAMEMNON. 
(From relief on Urn of very early date.) 



of evil, but conquering this she enters. In a few moments the cry of 
Agamemnon wounded is heard, and the chorus is filled with senile 
doubts about what had best be done. Soon the body of the slain 
king is shown, and Clytemnestra comes, exultant in her crime. She 
describes the murder vividly and explains her reasons, showing that 
besides her maternal indignation over the slaughter of her daughter, 
there was another cause — her husband's faithlessness to her. At the 
end ^Egisthus comes upon the stage expressing his joy at the event, 
his satisfaction being only marred by the threatening discontent of the 
chorus. The play ends with vice triumphant, but with the warning of 
future vengeance. Here is a version of these last lines : 



MSCHYLUS. 

AlGISTHOS. 
blessed light of this avenging day ! 
Now can I say the unforgetting gods 
From their supernal height the woes regard 
Of men, beholding him i' the woven robes 
Of the Erinnyes outstretched — a sight 
Most glad — atoning thus his father's deed, 
Done long ago. His father monarch then, 
Atreus, in Argos here, after debate 
For sovereignty and sway, Thyestes drave, 
My father, his own brother sooth to say, 
From home and country. But the sad exile, 
Returning suppliant to the hearth, received 
Safety and life, that he defiled not 
Himself his native soil with his mortal gore. 
But Atreus, the ungodly sire of who 
Lies there, at the guest-board as a feast of faith — 
Fiercely, not friendly — set my sire before, 
When most he seemed the festive day to urge 
In banqueting, his murdered children's flesh. 
Himself apart, sitting aloft the deas, 
Severed the feet and fingers from the trunk, 
That so, not marking what he ate, he ate 
A meal accursed, and ruinous to the race, 
As ye behold it now. But when he knew 
The horror, he howled out, and backward fell, 
Sick, from the feast of slaughter ; nor did not 
Most justly link that violated board 
With imprecated death to one and all 
The proud Pelopidae, that so might perish 
The race entire of Pleisthenes. By these, 
By these, ye see him, whom ye see, so fallen, 
And I it is who this his slaughter planned, 
Most justly. For me, yet a weanling child, 
With others twelve, my brethren, forth he drave, 
And him my woful father. But this day 
Justice hath brought me back full-grown, a man, 
And, though afar, I smote him, even I, 
For mine the plot, the counsel only mine. 
Happy therefore and proud to fall were I, 
Who have beheld my foe so basely die. 

Chorus. 
Aigisthos, most the coward's brag I scorn. 
Thyself, thou boastest to have slain this man 
Aforethought, and alone to have devised 
This pitiful murder. Therefore thou, I say, 
Nor popular doom nor stoning shalt escape. 

Aigisthos. 
Thou, sitting at the lowest oar, sayest this, 
When they who row above command the ship. 
Soon shalt thou know, being old, how hard it is 
For such to learn, when ordered, wise to be. 
But fetters and sharp hunger's pinching pain 
Wondrous mind-curers are the old to teach, 
Prophetical. Seeing this, wilt not see ? 
Kick not against the spur, or spurred shalt be. 

Chorus. 
Woman, hast thou, who shouldst have kept the house 
For those late come from war, his bed defiled, 
And planned this murder for thy warrior lord ? 



EXTRACT FROM AGAMEMNON. 2 85 

AlGISTHOS. 

Such words as these of tears the prelude are. 
The tongue of Orpheus was most unlike thine ; 
He all things captive led by his joyous strain. 
Thou, having angered all by yelpings vain, 
Captive thyself, reverence shall learn through pain. 

Chorus. 
And dost thou think in Argos to be king, 
Who, when thou hadst the hero's slaughter planned, 
Daredst not to do it with thine own right hand ? 

AlGISTHOS. 
Sure was it that his wife could him deceive, 
When me he held suspect of old his foe. 
But by his treasures here his realm to rule 
Straight I address me. Who obeys not, he, 
Even as a bean-fed colt that draws not true, 
The yoke shall feel right sore. Darkness combined 
With hateful hunger soon shall see him kind. 

Chorus. 
Wherefore, O villain of a coward soul, 
Not slay the man thyself- — but she, the wife, 
Pollution of the country and the country's gods, 
Slew him ! Oh, lives there not, somewhere on earth, 
Orestes, who, returning both shall slay, 
A great avenger, on a happy day ? 

AlGISTHOS. 
If so wilt speak, so do, ere long shalt better know. 
Ready, be ready, friends. It comes, the expected blow. 

Chorus. 
So be it. One and all, on every hilt a hand ! 

AlGISTHOS. 
To die refuse I not, but draw the deadly brand. 

Chorus. 
We would have thee die ; so hail thy words, that death foreshow. 

Klytaimnestra. 
No more, beloved of men, no more work we of woe ! 
To reap this harvest hath enough, more than enough, of guilt. 
Horror abounds. Then oh, let no more blood be spilt ! 
And ye, old men, to his appointed house each one 
Away, ere aught of ill be suffered or be done. 
What we have wrought was fate. But if enough can be 
Of woes and sufferings such as these, enough have we, — 
We whom the Daimon's heavy wrath so sore hath strook. 
These be a woman's words. Who deigns learn, to them look. 

Chorus. 
Not for the Greeks it is a coward to revere. 

AlGISTHOS. 

I shall some time be there, that ye at least shall fear. 

Chorus. 
Not if the Daimon bring Orestes home again. 

AlGISTHOS. 

I know that exiles feed on fleeting hopes and vain. 

Chorus. 
Sin ! revel in your sin ! mock justice while ye may. 

AlGISTHOS. 
This foolery, be sure, right dearly shall ye pay. 

Chorus. 
Crow cheerful, like the cock by his hen at break of day. 



286 &SCHYLUS. 

Klytaimnestra. 
Heed thou their yelpings not. For I and thou will choose 
The palace how to order best — as monarchs use. 

This long description must be excused in view of the importance of 
the Agamemnon, not merely in Greek, but in all literatures, for 
the masterpiece of Greek literature has but few rivals anywhere. 
Even this cold account will, it is hoped, show how intense is its dra- 
matic interest, and what part of this survives the lapse of two thousand 
years may indicate to us what the play must have been to the original 
spectators, familiar with the legend, and, more than this, believing in 
it as a part of their ancient religious history. For a long time com- 
mentators have occupied themselves with representing the thought of 
the time concerning the nature of evil by means of quotations from 
this and other plays, and doubtless the subjects chosen and the method 
of treatment prove the wide and profound interest in ethical questions. 
Yet it is to be remembered that those who look into a mirror find their 
own image constantly before them, hiding every other object, and some- 
times in taking single lines out of their context we run the risk of finding 
what we wish rather than what the author meant. Nevertheless it is 
obvious that the seriousness and majesty of the Greek tragedy em- 
balm the thought of the Greeks on the most baffling problems of life. 
In this play we find the old myth exalted into a thoughtful study of 
wickedness. In the succeeding ones is to be seen the author's solution. 

A number of years is supposed to have elapsed between the termina- 
tion of the Agamemnon and the beginning of the Libation Bearers, 
during which time Orestes, the son of Agamemnon and Clytemnestra, 
who has been carried away by a faithful servant to save him from his 
mother, has grown up at the court of Strophios, the king of Phocis, and 
husband of a sister of Agamemnon. At this place he has formed a 
close friendship with Pylades, the son of Strophios. When grown 
up, he is confirmed by the oracle in his determination to avenge his 
father by murdering his mother. To carry out this plan, he betakes 
himself in the company of Pylades to Argos, where his sister Electra 
has remained, suffering much from the hands of her mother, and ever 
mourning her father's sad fate. It is at this point that the second play 
begins, the name of which is taken from the chorus, consisting of 
maidens from the palace, who every day offer libations with Electra 
upon the grave of Agamemnon. The tragedy opens with the entrance 
of Orestes and Pylades, who approach the grave. Orestes utters a 
solemn prayer for aid in his plan, and lays a lock of his hair upon the 
grave. Meanwhile the chorus of captive women from Troy, bearing 
vessels for libations, issue from the palace, followed by Electra, and 
make their way to the tomb, while Orestes and Pylades withdraw. 



MEETING OF ORESTES AND ELECTRA. 



287 



Electra and the accompanying 
maidens were arrayed in mourning 
dresses, and bore every sign of 
grief. The chorus begins a song 
of lamentations, and when it is 
finished Electra goes up to the 
grave to perform the customary 
libations, and to offer her prayer; 
the chorus sing their song of grief. 
On the grave Electra discovers 
the lock of hair, which is speedily 
adjudged to be that of Orestes. 
It is at first supposed that he 
merely sent it, and this explana- 
tion produces great regret. Sud- 
denly, however, Orestes himself 
returns, and soon settles his sister's 
doubts concerning his identity. 
Electra's swift recognition of her 
brother's hair, and the corrobora- 
tion of this judgment by finding 
the track of his foot to correspond 
with her own, called forth later 
the derision of Euripides over 
such clumsy devices. When Elec- 
tra first sees Orestes, she fails to 
recognize him, and he reproaches 
her : 

" My very face thou seest and know'st 

me not, 
And yet but now, when thou didst see 

the lock 
Shorn for my father's grave, and when 

thy quest 
Was eager on the footprints I had made, 
Even I, thy brother, shaped and sized as 

thou, 
Fluttered thy spirit, as at sight of me !" 

And he further destroys all 
doubts by showing her a robe she 
had herself made for him. All 
this scene has been criticised for 
its crudity, and certainly the art 
of ^Eschylus was less manifest in 




256 AZSCHYLUS. 

these simpler relations of two people than it was in the complexer 
contrast of colossal passions. This becomes clear in the swift outbreak 
of emotion with which the brother and sister encourage each other to 
vengeance for their wrongs, and in the solemnity of the invocation 
when the two are joined by the chorus and unite in foretelling and 
defending the speedy justice that Orestes is about to inflict on the 
guilty pair. Orestes exposes his whole plan of action to his sister, and 
they both leave the stage. The interval is filled with a song of the 
chorus denouncing the murder of Agamemnon. Then Orestes and 
Pylades appear, and Orestes knocks at the door of the palace and asks 
to see some one in authority. Clytemnestra appears ; he represents 
himself as a stranger, and announces to her the death of her son Ores- 
tes. She is far from overwhelmed at this news, and goes back into the 
palace. The chorus outside soon sees Kilissa, the old nurse of Orestes, 
come out on her way to summon ^Egisthus. This poor old woman, 
in marked contrast to Clytemnestra, is affected by the sincerest grief, 
and her naive reminiscences of the familiar incidents of her nursling's 
babyhood have the real Shaksperian flavor. The episode shows clearly 
how great likeness there is between the best men ; the conditions of 
dramatic literature in the time of y^Eschylus were very different from 
those of the time of Shakspere, and the framework of their plays 
attests these differences, but what is more striking is the frequent op- 
portunity that the reader has of observing close resemblances, as in 
this case. 

To go on with the play ; the chorus, which is in the secret, bids 
Kilissa not to ask ^Egisthus to bring his armed guard with him, but to 
let him come unattended ; she promises, and leaves the chorus to sing a 
prayer to Zeus for aid to Orestes. ^Egisthus enters the stage in 
answer to the summons, and, after a few boastful words to the chorus, 
enters the palace to confront the messenger. The chorus continues 
its prayer, when suddenly a cry is heard within, and a slave hurries 
forth announcing the murder of ./Egisthus, and demanding the presence 
of the queen. She at once appears and calls for the axe with which 
she murdered Agamemnon. Then Orestes comes out, bearing his 
dripping sword. Immediately there begins an eager debate between 
them, she entreating for her life, and he avowing and defending 
his resolution to slay her. Finally, persuaded by Pylades, he drives 
her within to accomplish his bloody purpose of killing her by the side 
of ./Egisthus. By the laws of the Greek drama, no such deed could 
be committed on the stage. The chorus sing a solemn song, till 
the scene opens disclosing Orestes standing over the corpses of 
^Egisthus and Clytemnestra, holding his sword in one hand, and in the 
other the wrapper that was cast over his father when he was slain. He 



ABSENCE OF SURPRISE IN THE PL A VS. 



2S9 



comes to the front of the stage, and 
brought forward by attendants to 
the place where Agamemnon's body 
had once lain. Orestes announces 
what he has done to the chorus, who 
are filled with horror, and makes 
repeated assurances that he com- 
mitted the act only from a sense of 
duty. But even now he is horrified 
at what he has done ; he feels the 
curse that visits the matricide, he 
begins to rave, and determines to 
wander to the shrine of the Delphian 
Apollo, where alone he may find 
peace. The Furies appear to him, 
unseen by the chorus, and he rushes 
away. The chorus sings a final song 
of uncertainty, and this impressive 
play ends. 

It will be noticed that the interest 
is in no way slackened, even if we 
observe a certain simplicity in the 
dramatic construction, as in Electra's 
recognition of her brother, and in 
the way that Orestes announces to 
the chorus his plan of vengeance. 
The Agamemnon contains no such 
incidents ; the whole play is as com- 
pact in form as it is rich in passion. 
Yet in the second play we see most 
vividly one of the aims of the early 
Greek tragedy in its very indepen- 
dence of surprise. The incidents 
are robbed of that accidental quality, 
and are left to make their own im- 
pression, the different parts being 
united in a vast whole, to which each 
division is subordinate, as, in the 
sculpture of the time, masses and 
combinations of figures were brought 
together to make a total impression 
very different from that of separate 
statues, which were the more 



the bodies of his victims are 




290 ALSCHYLUS. 

frequent work of later artists. Individuality had not yet received 
its full development ; it was still a contribution to the total force 
of the play, very much as the separate merits of distinct figures 
combined to add to the total collections of images in the group 
upon a frieze. The play, at any rate, possessed to a higher degree the 
quality of presenting familiar things than that of alluring the specta- 
tor by surprise, and it is only the best work that can dispense with the 
baser attraction. To the Greeks these tragedies must have had very 
much the same charm that classical music possesses for us, a charm 
that is not novelty, but the lofty delight to be got from perfect work. 
The third play may be described briefly. The action quickly follows 
that of its predecessor, and brings to a completion the accumulated 
suffering that had advanced a stage further in the Libation Bearers. 
Orestes has taken his revenge, but only by adding new guilt ; he has 
performed one duty, but by violating another. If he has obeyed one 
god, he has offended another divinity, and the vendetta might have 
continued indefinitely. As the end of the last play indicated, he 
hastens to the temple of Apollo at Delphi, pursued by the avenging 
Furies ; and as he clings in safety to the altar his tormentors lie in a 
circle about him. At this point the third tragedy, the Eumenides, be- 
gins. The Furies are the chorus, and it has been said that at the first 
representation they were fifty in number, but that this multitude was 
so terrifying to the spectators that the number was reduced to fifteen. 
Yet, like most positive assertions regarding the classics, this has been 
quite as positively denied, and some have again affirmed that they 
were only three in number ; but definite information is lacking. How- 
ever many there were, they were alarming, and Apollo's protection of 
Orestes in no way modifies their implacable wrath. They really rep- 
resent the abstract spirit of revenge. Apollo casts them into a brief 
slumber, during which the Pythian priestess enters to consult the 
oracle, but the ghastly sight of a bloody-handed man at the altar, 
holding a bare sword, and the sleeping Furies around him, fills her with 
the horror which animates her description of what meets her eye. 
From the background comes forth Orestes under the guardianship of 
Apollo, who bids the unhappy hero to hasten to Athens, the city of 
Pallas, where his cause shall be judged. As soon as he is gone, the 
ghost of Clytemnestra, doomed to endless wandering in the shades, 
appears and bitterly chides the Furies for the remissness of their watch : 

" Awake and hear 
My plaint of dead men's hate intolerable, 
Me, sternly slain by them that should have loved, 
Me doth no God arouse him to avenge, 
Hewn down in blood by matricidal hands. 
Mark ye these wounds from which the heart's blood ran, 
And by whose hand, bethink ye ? " 



PRODUCTION OF DRAMATIC EFFECT. 291 

And when the Furies half waking mutter and cry in their sleep, she 
urges them still further: 

" Up ! thrill your heart 
With the just tidings of my tongue— such words 
Are as a spur to purpose firmly held, 
Blow forth on him the breath of wrath and blood, 
Scorch him with wreek of fire that burns in you, 
Waste him with new pursuit — swift, hound him down." 

Their awakening, which was the occasion of the terror mentioned 
above, must have been a most impressive spectacle, and doubtless 
every adjunct of art was brought to aid the vision of relentless wrath. 
The song of the chorus expresses their keen regret that their prey has 
escaped them, and it gradually turns to a denunciation of the younger 
gods, and notably of Apollo for his disregard of the Fates. But in the 
hottest of their song the god Apollo appears, and bids them to depart. 

" Out ! I command you. Out from this my home. 
Haste, tarry not ! Out from the mystic shrine, 
Lest thy lot be to take into thy breast 
The winged bright dart, that from my golden string 
Speeds hissing as a snake." 

Here again the entrance of the god, silencing the bold Furies, offered 
an admirable chance for striking dramatic effect. The contrast was 
great between the terrifying fiends with the confused and confusing 
denunciations of their song, and the majestic, awe-inspiring command 
of the suddenly appearing god, whose words were doubtless accom- 
panied by an authoritative gesture. It was in passages like this doubt- 
less that the artistic arrangement of the actors on the Greek stage was 
most carefully arranged, and that the opportunity for a magnificent 
tableau was used in the fullest measure. Here the god, after 
silencing the song of the Furies and bidding them leave his sanctuary, 
listens, for a few moments, to their arguments, in which they take a 
much more reasonable ground, and they part from Apollo almost as 
friends. They say : 

" Great thy name among the thrones of Zeus ; 
But I, his mother's blood constraining me, 
Will this man chase, and track him like a hound." 

To which he answers : 

" And I will help him and my suppliant free ; 
For dreadful among gods and mortals too 
The suppliant's curse, should I abandon him." 

But this deliberate statement of the tragic conflict soon yields to far 
intenser feelings. There is a change of scene at this point, for the 



29 2 MSCHYLUS. 

Greeks cared as little for the imaginary unities of time and place when 
these were in their way as did Shakspere himself, and the spectator saw 
the Acropolis before him, with Orestes, after long travels, supplicating 
the aid of Pallas Athene. Almost immediately the Furies track him, 
and their song is one of the most magnificent things that ^Eschylus 
ever composed. 

Thee not Apollo nor Athena's strength 

Can save from perishing, a castaway 

Amid the lost, where no delight shall meet 

Thy soul — a bloodless prey of nether powers, 

A shadow among shadows. Answerest thou 

Nothing ? Dost cast away my words with scorn — 

Thou, prey prepared and dedicate to me ? 

Not as a victim slain upon the shrine, 

But living shalt thou see thy flesh my food. 

Hear now the binding chant that makes thee mine. 

Weave the weird dance — behold, the hour 

To utter forth the chant of hell, 

Our sway among mankind to tell, 

The guidance of our power. 

Of justice are we ministers, 

And whosoe'er of men may stand 

Lifting a pure, unsullied hand, 

That man no doom of ours incurs, 

And walks thro' all his mortal path 

Untouched by woe, unharmed by wrath. 

But if, as yonder man, he hath 

Blood-dropping hands he strives to hide, 

We stand avengers at his side, 

Decreeing, Thou hast wronged the dead : 

We are doom's witnesses to thee. 

The price of blood his hands have shed 

We wring from him ; in life, in death, 

Hard at his side are we ! 



Night, Mother Night, who brought me forth, a torment 

To living men and dead, 
Hear me, O hear ! By Leto's stripling son 

I am dishonored ! 
He hath ta'en from me him who cowers in refuge, 

To me made consecrate — - 
A chosen victim, him who slew his mother, 

Given o'er to me and fate. 



Hear the hymn of hell, 
O'er the victim sounding — 
Chant of frenzy, chant of ill, 
Sense and will confounding ! 
Round the soul entwining 
Without lute or lyre — 
Soul in madness pining, 
Wasting as with fire ! 



THE SONG OF THE "FURIES." 293 

Fate, all pervading fate, for me this work hath woven, 

That I should bide therein : 
Whosoe'er of mortals, made perverse and lawless, 

Is stained with blood of kin, 
By his side are we, and hunt him ever onward, 

Till to the silent land, 
The realm of death, he cometh ; neither yonder 

In freedom shall he stand. 

Hear the hymn of hell, 
O'er the victim sounding — 
Chant of frenzy, chant of ill, 
Sense and will confounding ! 
Round the soul entwining 
Without lute or lyre — 
Soul in madness pining, 
Wasting as with fire ! 

When from womb of Night we sprang, on us this labor 

Was laid and shall abide. 
Gods immortal are ye, yet beware ye touch not 

That which is our pride. 
None may come beside us gathered round the blood-feast — 

For us no garments white 
Gleam for a festal day ; for us a darker fate is, 

Another darker rite ! 
That is mine hour when falls an ancient line — 

When in the household's heart 
The god of blood doth slay by kindred hands — 

Then do we bear our part : 
On him who slays we sweep with chasing cry : 

Though he be triply strong, 
We wear and waste him ; blood atones for blood, 

New pain for ancient wrong. 
I hold this task — 'tis mine, and not another's, 

The very gods on high, 
Though they can silence and annul the prayers 

Of those who on us cry, 
They may not strive with us who stand apart, 

A race by Zeus abhorr'd, 
Blood-bolter'd, held unworthy of the council 

And converse of heaven's lord ! 
Therefore, the more I leap upon my prey — 

Upon their head I bound. 
My foot is hard ; as one that trips a runner 

I cast them to the ground, 
Yea, to the depth of doom intolerable ; 

And they who erst were great, 
And upon earth held high their pride and glory, 

Are brought to low estate. 
In underworld they waste and are diminished, 

The while around them fleet 
Dark wavings of my robes, and, subtly woven, 

The paces of my feet. 

Who falls infatuate, he sees not neither knows he 

That we are at his side, 
So closely round about him, darkly flitting, 

The cloud of guilt doth glide. 



294 MSCHYLUS. 

Heavily 'tis uttered, how round his hearthstone 

The mirk of hell doth rise. 
Stern and fixed the law is ; we have hands t'achieve it, 

Cunning to devise. 
Queens are we and mindful of our solemn vengeance ; 

Not by tear or prayer 
Shall a man avert it. In unhonored darkness, 

Far from gods, we fare, 
Lit unto our task with torch of sunless regions ; 

And o'er a deadly way — 
Deadly to the living as to those who see not 

Life and light of day — 
Hunt we and press onward. Who of mortals hearing 

Doth not quake for awe, 
Hearing all that fate thro' hand of God hath given us 

For ordinance and law ? 
Yea, this right to us, in dark abysm and backward 

Of ages it befell ! 
None shall wrong mine office, tho' in nether regions 

And sunless dark I dwell. 

At the end of this superb choral song, Athene, who heard it far off, 
returned in order to seek some explanation. 

Who are ye ? of all I ask, 
And of this stranger to my statue clinging. 
But ye — your shape is like no human form, 
Like to no goddess whom the gods behold, 
Like to no shape which mortal women wear. 

Here again we notice the composure of a divinity in contrast with 
the wild excitement the chorus had just shown, which now resolves 
itself into the more deliberate utterance of dialogue, each party com- 
pressing its speech into a single line after the usual habit. Nowhere 
was the directness that characterized the Greek mind more conspic- 
uous than in these swift interchanges of repartee. Every speech was 
like a single thrust of a rapier ; profusion of words was unknown. In 
a dialogue of this compact form, Athene and the chorus arrange that the 
conflict which seemed to be without an issue should be brought to final 
judgment. Orestes agrees, and Athene leaves to secure the judges. 
The chorus, as if foreseeing their defeat, mourn the blow that will be 
given to the stern morality which they enforce, until Athene returns 
with the judges. A herald, at her command, convokes the populace 
with a blast from a trumpet, and when Apollo, who presents himself 
as a witness and as the defender of the accused Orestes, has come for- 
ward, the trial begins. In spite of the difficulty that attends making 
remarks that can not be proved, so that contradiction is a cheap as well 
as a tempting luxury, we may be safe in conjecturing that the incidents 
of the trial that now follows bore a recognizable likeness to the form- 
ulas of trials as the Greeks knew them from their own experience. 



THE TRIAL OF ORESTES. 295 

But again, this was doubtless a similarity modified by the laws of the 
drama, very much as in Shakspere's plays the rigid representation was 
affected by poetical necessities. Certainly, if we may start on the 
ground that is often forgotten by critics, that the master of an art 
knows tolerably well what he undertakes to do, the refinements and 
splittings of hairs that characterize the discussion represent subtleties 
of argument familiar to the Greeks of that time, and in Apollo's words 
we perhaps find more of a contemporary advocate than of a purely 
ideal divinity. Certainly the insinuations of the rare excellence of the 
judge and the benefits that will follow the decision he desires have an 
earthly flavor. 

When Athene calls on the men of Athens to cast their ballots, she 
breaks into an eloquent outburst of praise of Athens, which must have 
delighted the audience. While the voting is going on, Apollo and the 
Furies vie with each other in their solicitations of favorable ballots, 
but with this result that the two sides have cast an equal number of 
votes, and that Orestes is consequently acquitted. In the glow of 
gratitude he swears eternal friendship to the Athenians, and if the 
Argives ever break this solemn compact he vows that his shade shall 
punish them. On the other hand, the Furies express their wrath 
against the upstart deities who have no regard for the old gods, and 
they make ready to utter terrible and fateful imprecations against the 
land. 

Athene, however, intervenes ; she tells them 

" Orestes slew ; and his slaying is atoned," 

and promises them a sanctuary where they shall be honored, and after 
some persuasion melts their wrath, and the play ends with the final 
reconciliation. Athene leads the procession down into the cave of the 
Furies, while an escort of women and children chant aloud a song of 
joyous welcome. The Furies are changed into the Eumenides, or 
gentle ones. The whole terrible history of crime and bloodshed is thus 
brought to a reconciliation that establishes new and bountiful deities 
in Attica. The allusions to an alliance with Argos probably referred 
to a contemporary movement in the political chequer-board, just as the 
final part of the play won the sympathies of the Athenians by its 
presentation of familiar scenes and ceremonies. Yet the last playin- 
contestably makes a less vivid impression than its predecessors on the 
modern reader ; the local coloring which endeared to the Greeks the 
conclusion of the trilogy has for us mainly an archaeological interest. 
It remains true, however, that in this termination of the trilogy, as 
throughout the work of ^Eschylus, we see how far the Greek tragedy 
was from being a mere literary presentation of familiar stories; it was 



296 



^.SCHYLUS. 



rather, as a German writer has pointed out, an effort to express the 
philosophy of history. The inspiration came from the sudden impor- 
tance of Attica after the Persian wars, when the strongest power in 
the world had been overthrown by a petty state. Obviously some ex- 
planation for so marvellous an occurrence had to be found, and it was 
sought in the examination of man's relation to divinity. All historical 
research led to the same ground; for the profane and sacred history 




A FURY. 



of Hellas were blended in the mythological past, and in examining the 
past, students were soon brought face to face with the direct action of 
the gods on the affairs of men. Of the wealth of instances we have 
seen abundant proofs in the works of the lyric poets ; in Pindar 
especially do we find continual reference to the myths that had gath- 
ered around every place that might be mentioned. Just as every spot 
in Italy recalls to the student incidents of modern history in that of 
the middle ages, and is full of memories of ancient times until these 
are lost in the gray mists of antiquity, so could the contemporary of 
yEschylus recall a long list of mythological reminiscences, the abun- 
dance and variety of which, we are justified in supposing, indicated a 
similar long period of growth. Fortunately for the Greeks, they en- 



TREATMENT OF LIFE AND ITS PROBLEMS BY sESCHYLUS. 297 

joyed sufficient intellectual freedom to be able to study the myths 
without slavish superstition. Their religion was, to a very great ex- 
tent, a survival of the imaginations of a forgotten past, but into these 
they breathed new life by recognizing a grand movement of which the 
different stories were separate manifestations. In the eyes of JEschy- 
lus, who herein did but express the thoughts of the best men of his 
time, while happiness and unhappiness were the direct result of human 
actions, there yet existed the power of the gods that made itself mani- 
fest in inexplicable forms. The contest between individual freedom 
and the rigid laws of the universe is his constant subject, and both 
are drawn with largeness of treatment that is an important element in 
the total impression of grandeur that the work of yEschylus leaves. 
The old conflicts are resolved by the new forces to which every thing 
is subordinated. The Furies, for instance, are turned into gentle 
beings ; the command of Zeus everywhere compels obedience, and 
Zeus expresses right and wisdom. In this way the apparently baffling 
confusion of life is reconciled with the divine rule. The contending 
forces are tremendous, but the final harmony is complete. 

This treatment, it will be noticed, is distinguished by other qualities 
than subtlety ; it was the ready solution that was natural to a period 
when unsuspected success had begotten a ready optimism. The broad 
lines in which the thought of yEschylus moved show the newness of 
the ethical judgments that fill his plays, just as the frequency of de- 
scription in the place of action in the early tragedies indicates the 
authority of the earlier epics, and the certainty of completer dramatic 
machinery in the future development of the drama. As time went on, 
the stage became modified by inevitable laws, and the grandeur of 
^Eschylus was succeeded by the more delicate psychological analysis 
of Sophocles, in whose hands a more perfect art brought the drama 
to a wonderful completion. It must be remembered, however, that 
this difference between ^Eschylus and Sophocles was not so much a 
personal one as it was the necessary result of their relative 
positions in the history of the Greek drama. In all literature there is 
behind the artist the world, and the way in which any genius shall ex- 
press itself is rigidly determined by circumstances. It is by no mere 
coincidence that we uniformly find certain conditions invariably repeat- 
ing themselves in art and letters. The man who draws in bold lines is 
followed by others who fill in the outlines, as Dryden was succeeded 
by Pope, as Shakspere by men who subdivided the passions in their 
plays, and lost hold of the grander ethical purpose that characterized 
the master of the English stage. These later poets were controlled 
by the same necessities as are those men who develop the principles 
of the great inventions in a thousand practical minutiae, or those who, 



290 AESCHYLUS. 

following the conquerors of a new country, have to devote themselves 
to the less glorious task of introducing all the works of civilization. 
It is one thing to take possession of a vast country with firing of guns, 
hoisting of flags, and general holiday, and another to fight with savages, 
hew down trees, make roads, drain swamps, in the task of making the 
wild region habitable. 

In ^Eschylus we find the comparative simplicity that marks a dis- 
coverer ; to the epic traditions which had faded to the. condition of a 
memorial of past glory he lent a new life, and to the lyric song which 
for centuries had wound around all sorts of pleasing and pathetic emo- 
tions he had opened a new life, just as Petrarch used the wonderful 
contrivances of mediaeval song to convey the first messages of modern 
times. Every such period of elevation is inspiratory and hopeful. The 
awakening from the monotonous circular movement of the Greek 
lyrics, the glow of the early Renaissance, the enthusiasm of the Roman- 
tic outbreak, all shared the same sublime confidence in the final 
victory of the new principles by which they were animated. Hence, 
^Eschylus needed only to state his conditions to show the ultimate 
solution that necessarily followed. In the Seven against Thebes, for 
example, the absence of dramatic development makes clear his confi- 
dence in the certainty and distinctness of the higher law which he saw 
ruling the universe. To every man and to every nation success will 
always seem the one normal thing ; no one is appalled or startled by 
accomplishing what he undertakes to do; and to the generation to 
which ^Eschylus belonged, the victory over the Persians was natural 
and just. Even if it had to be explained as the result of the inter- 
ference of the gods, men find no difficulties in adjudging themselves 
worthy of divine affection and aid. It is a mere matter of self-confi- 
dence, and success is sure to produce this quality. 

There was a marked change in the period that followed, when the 
ideal impulse was succeeded by the necessity of practical action. The 
divine aid was no longer visible in a great and unexpected, almost 
miraculous, manner; but with the growth of Athens in political power, 
the heavenly powers had withdrawn from direct interference in human 
events, and men had been left to their own devices. At once the com- 
plication of life became manifest. The new cultivation declared itself 
in numberless new forms, in art as well as in literature, while each 
of these branches of intellectual interest helped the others, and the 
sculpture of the great Greek artists by its purity and beauty refined 
the literary perceptions of the people. Yet, it must be remembered, 
both art and letters were then, as they always are, not two distinct 
entities, but only different manifestations of the same feeling. Both 
expressed the same artistic ideal of beauty and dignity, grace and sub- 



INDIVIDUAL PORTRAITURE LACKING IN MSCHYLUS' PLAYS. 299 

limity. The new possibilities that had opened before the human in- 
telligence had altered the position of men in the eyes of artists and 
poets, and doubtless many things concerning the divine control of the 
world which ^Eschylus had stated with difficulty had found a secure 
place among the accepted truths of the next generation, yet these had 
been modified by the novel importance which the individual had ac- 
quired in the eager competition of political life. For in ^Eschylus 
nothing is more striking than the absence or, when it exists at all, the 
frequent crudity of the character-drawing. Individuals at times seem 
scarcely to exist for him. When they are most nearly drawn, as in the 
Agamemnon, they possibly depend for their vividness on the intimacy 
of the audience with the old myths that were comparatively discon- 
nected with the religious beliefs, and were more venerable as contribu- 
tions to poetry than as elements of faith. It may perhaps be conjec- 
tured — with timidity, as befits one who is warned by the fate that 
surely awaits the person who ventures to make any suggestion about the 
classics — that the Homeric legends retained some of the Ionic quality, 
and the poetry of that race was but loosely connected with religion. 
Indeed, when we first find the lonians we notice that they have out- 
grown, or at least do not share, the communal life which is prominent 
among the Dorians. Their authors do not form a class; we find no 
groups in their individualized society where they are personified in a 
king or leader, and this condition of things is naturally reflected in 
their mythical concepts. If there is any thing in this suggestion, it 
may explain the formality that is more prominent in the Agamemnon 
than anywhere else in the plays of yEschylus, where we generally find 
abstract principles represented rather than living people. The mere 
prominence of the chorus in his plays illustrates this ; in the Suppliants, 
for example, the play depends on the action and nature of the chorus, 
the daughters of Danaus. The chorus of twelve Persians are the main 
persons in the Persians. In the Eumenides again we notice a similar 
thing, and in the Prometheus the allegorical figures of Strength, or 
Violence, and Force show how possible it was for impersonal figures to 
appear in place of actual beings. With Sophocles it was different ; in 
his hands the chorus shrank away before the development of the indi- 
vidual, and finally Euripides left it a mere spectator of the action with 
but a shadow of its early importance. In Aristophanes, again, we 
shall observe the two-fold tendency, and a divided allegiance to indivi- 
duality on the one hand, and to the old-fashioned allegorical figures, 
such as Demos and Eirene, or Peace, on the other. The comedian's 
conservatism, and the inherited approval of stock figures, made the last 
form acceptable, for nothing has a sturdier life than a jest or a conven- 
tional figure of fun. Punch has outlived many dynasties and religions. 



3°° AESCHYLUS. 

The changes that altered conditions produced in Sophocles combined 
to bring forth in his plays a quality that secured admiration for them 
at different periods of the world's history, when the sterner majesty 
of ^Eschylus only aroused repulsion. In the last century the earlier 
poet was despised, but Sophocles was greatly admired for his work- 
manship and the prominence that he gave to the human element. The 
religious tendency of the tragedies of ^Eschylus failed to appeal to a 
time of narrow intellectual interest, but the comparative worldliness 
of Sophocles attracted sympathetic attention. This distinction will 
be clearer when we examine the plays of the later dramatist, especially 
if we remember that the term worldliness is only true in comparing 
him with ^Eschylus, and that it means no more than that the conflict 
between human beings and the contest of their personal hopes, wishes, 
and fears, takes the place of the simpler struggle between characters 
who stand as representatives of divine principles of fate. This prin- 
ciple of fatality underlies the work of Sophocles, for it is part of the 
myths, from which he too drew his subjects: but he developed 
his characters into more complicated human beings, after the process 
that invariably rules literature, as every thing else, that progress is, 
in the language of philosophers, from the homogeneous to the hetero- 
geneous. A similar change, it is interesting to notice, is going on at 
the present time, in the change of the novel from the romantic de- 
lineation of heroes to the more careful drawing of complexer beings, 
who do not depend for importance on the mysterious grandeur of their 
qualities, but on the combination of human traits that they represent. 
The difference between Sophocles and ^Eschylus corresponds in many 
respects to the difference now manifesting itself between realism and 
romanticism, and the change from Sophocles to Euripides will only 
strengthen the resemblance. 




ORESTES. 



CHAPTER III.— SOPHOCLES. 

I. The Life of Sophocles ; His Relation to the Persian Wars — The Position he 
Held — His Relation to the Time of Pericles ; the Main Qualities of that Bril- 
liant Period — His Work Compared with That of yEschylus. II. The Electra, 
Compared with the Treatment of the Oresteian Myth by ^Eschylus — The Play 
Described — Importance of Oratory among the Greeks Illustrated by the Plays — 
Fullness of the Art of Sophocles. III. The Antigone ; Its Adaptability to 
Modern Tastes — The Modification in the Treatment of the Chorus. IV. The 
King (Edipus — Its Vividness and Impressiveness. V. The CEdipus at Colonus — 
Its Praise of Athens. VI. The Ajax — Its Treatment of a Bit of Homeric 
Story — The Interference of a Deity — The Growth of Individuality. VII. The 
Philoctetes ; Again Homeric Characters — The Individual Traits Strongly Brought 
out. VIII. The Maidens of Trachis — General View of the Art of Sophocles, 
with its Rounded Perfection. 

I. 

THE life of Sophocles contains but few events of interest, although 
such details as have been handed down to us are of value, as 
showing how all men of ability at the time he lived were likely to be 
drawn into the service of the state. Sophocles, the son of Sophillus, 
was born about the fourth year of the seventieth Olympiad, 496 B.C. 
at Colonus, a suburb of Athens. He belonged to a family in easy cir- 
cumstances, and hence received careful instruction in music and gym- 
nastic exercises, the two essentials of the Greek education. At the 
age of sixteen he was chosen for his beauty to lead the chorus of 
youths who danced and sang in the paean that was performed over the 
trophies of Salamis. He made his first appearance as a tragedian in 
the year 468. On this occasion he entered into rivalry with ^Eschylus, 
who was thirty years his senior, and the decision with regard to the 
first prize found the audience closely divided. The archon threw the 
matter for adjudication into the hands of Cimon and the generals who 
had just returned with him from transferring the bones of Theseus 
from the island of Scyros to Athens. These novel judges settled the 
question by awarding the first prize to Sophocles, who remained the 
unrivalled master of the stage for many years. The departure of 
^Eschylus for Sicily freed him from his most serious competitor. Dur- 
ing the supremacy of Sophocles the changes in the technical construc- 
tion of the drama were very slight, scarcely more, indeed, than the 
natural development of what was indicated by his predecessors. To 




SOPHOCLES. 
{In the Later an Museum.} 



THE LIFE OF SOPHOCLES. 3° 3 

the two actors that ^Eschylus employed he added a third, thus estab- 
lishing a number that was never enlarged. In his hands, furthermore, 
the importance of the chorus underwent a continuance of the change 
that already began in the work of ^Eschylus, and from an important 
representative of dramatic action it became a lyrical accompaniment. 
A weakness of the voice prevented Sophocles from appearing himself 
in a prominent part upon the stage, as was the custom among dramatic 
authors. Of his popularity we may judge from the fact that he ob- 
tained the first prize thirty times, while ^Eschyluswon it but thirteen; 
moreover, if Sophocles failed of this highest reward, he was adjudged 
the second. 

The prominence that he thus acquired caused him to be chosen to 
various positions which required far different qualities. He was one 
of ten generals serving with Pericles and Thucydides in the war 
against Samos. We do not hear that he distinguished himself in this 
office. On his return he was appointed priest to Alon, one of the 
ancient heroes, and doubtless he found this a more congenial position. 
We know, too, that he was interested in his civic duties, and that in 
his old age he was a member of a commission to investigate the public 
affairs, and that he gave his consent to the establishment of the 
oligarchy which wrought such confusion in Athens. 

With regard to his private life the accounts are conflicting. A nat- 
ural son of his was the father of a younger Sophocles, who acquired 
some reputation as a writer of tragedies. Iophon, the great poet's 
son, became, we are told, jealous of his father's affection for his name- 
sake, and was led to seek aid from the courts in placing his father under 
guardianship for dotage and incompetence. Sophocles in self-defense 
read to the judges parts of his CEdipus at Colonus, which he had just 
composed, and the suit was at once decided in his favor. Iophon, it 
may be said by the way, was a not unsuccessful tragic writer. While 
these incidents rest on somewhat uncertain traditions, it is known that 
Sophocles lived to a great age in the enjoyment of the respect and 
admiration of his fellow-citizens, and that he died at about the age of 
ninety, in the year 406. His life covered the brief period of Athenian 
glory, and, dying when he did, he just escaped seeing the defeat of 
the naval forces of his native city by Lysander at ^Egospotamos, the 
event which sealed the fate of Athens and established the supremacy 
of Sparta. 

Obviously Sophocles is the great poet of the age of Pericles, as is 
Shakspere of the Elizabethan age, Racine of that of Louis XIV. ; this 
existence of the perfected national art with that of national impor- 
tance is a coincidence that may be safely compared with the familiar 
instance of large towns being found on large rivers. It was not in the 



3°4 SOPHOCLES. 

drama alone that great success was attained ; prose writing had acquired 
an ease and grace that was reflected in some of the forms of verse, and 
in the fine arts the spirit that animated both found a form of expres- 
sion that has never been surpassed. The political condition of Athens 
was also especially favorable to the production of the superiority that 
at this time distinguished its work, wherein it set a model which has 
exercised a vast influence on modern literature. The whole Athenian 
civilization rested, to be sure, on a democratic basis, yet this democracy 
was, so to speak, one formed on aristocratic principles, and was as dif- 
ferent from a universal democracy, such as at present terrifies half the 
world, as was the rigid " town-autonomy " of Greece from the pliant 
principle of federal union that has lent itself to the formation of the 
United States. It is true that the Athenian populace, the demos, ex- 
ercised complete control of the state without the intervention of the 
principle of representation, and that the world has never known so 
direct management of public affairs by private citizens. War and 
peace lay in the hands of the demos ; it appointed generals and defined 
public policy, besides discharging many administrative functions, yet — 
and this is a most important condition — the men who exercised this 
power were a chosen band who enjoyed a practical immunity from 
overwhelming work by the possession of a host of slaves. In Corinth 
and JEgina. these must have been ten times as many as the free citi- 
zens ; in Athens it is estimated that there were at least four times 
as many. Hence, the free citizens of most of the countries of Greece 
formed a large aristocracy, bearing many likenesses to the condition of 
the Southern States before the war, and presenting a great contrast to 
the North,where citizenship was possessed by the unfranchised working- 
men. The Greek slaves were treated with great kindness; the subordi- 
nation was not violent subjection ; they were ignorant, and were em- 
ployed in congenial pursuits. On them the whole Greek populace 
rested. 

Consequently art and literature grew up among a chosen multitude, 
whom immunity from sordid cares did not lead to idleness and corrup- 
tion. From these perils of slave-ownership they were preserved by 
their natural energy, and by the constant call of public duty. Indiffer- 
ence to civic functions was held to be criminal, and the apathy which 
is the curse of modern civilization was practically unknown. The lei- 
sure that was secured by the employment of slaves gave the people an 
opportunity for higher culture. Gymnastic exercises were enforced by 
law upon all the free populace, and this was robbed of the appearance 
of odious compulsion by the fact that not only was the right of citizen- 
ship dependent on the performance of physical exercise, but that skill 
in these was encouraged by the importance given to the great public 




PEACE WITH PLENTY ON HER ARM. 



3° 6 SOPHOCLES. 

games. While before the Persian war Athens had thus trained the 
forces that were to repel the invader, after the war the prominence of 
that city brought to it from all quarters the men who led the young 
into countless paths of intellectual and artistic entertainment and in- 
struction. What private luxury had begun to take root before the war 
diminished in the face of the new interests and enthusiasms, when 
tragedy, comedy, philosophy, history, art, and science met for that 
brief glow that has immortalized the name of Athens, and left a yet 
unattained model for all posterity. What had previously been possessed 
by separate cities and different islands was now concentrated within 
the walls of a single town, and the union of forces was and remains 
unequalled. It was a combination that was far-reaching and inspiring, 
not a mere co-existence of separate men of genius ; these were differ- 
ent instruments for the expression of one inspiring feeling, of a com- 
mon enthusiasm, in the support of which they harmonized as fellow- 
workers and lived together as friends. In the brief interval of peace 
for Athens under Pericles, before the long calamity of the Peloponne- 
sian war, this gifted people reached its highest development, and it is 
in the work of Sophocles that it left its completest literary expression. 
The inevitable comparison between his work and that of ^Eschylus 
makes clear the difference between the man who works with unfa- 
miliar tools in rapidly changing conditions, and his successor who finds 
the paths cut and laid out so that it falls to him to devote himself to 
perfecting the task in hand. Sophocles found the drama established, 
and he developed its capacities. As has been indicated, what had been 
impressive by its sublimity he modified by lending to it human inter- 
est ; what depended for its interest on great emotional development 
was brought down to a statement of the complexity and wonder of 
life. The difference was more than the result of the personal charac- 
teristics of the two men. If the position of the three great tragedians 
had been altered, so that Euripides had been the oldest, and ^Eschylus 
had been the youngest, it is not to be supposed that the development 
of the drama would have been exactly opposite to the form that 
we are now studying. It was rather the state of the dramatic art and 
of society that created and presented the conditions under which these 
men worked, and as the growing individualism of the time developed 
it left its mark on the work of these great tragedians. How it grew 
is to be observed in the history and literature of the period, and no- 
where is it more vivid than in the drama which was the immediate re- 
flection of the swift development of the period. The study of the 
plays of Sophocles will show us the corporate elements, as we may call 
them, of the older time, which we see in the work of ^Eschylus exist- 
ing alongside of the individualities that are most prominent in that of 



CONTRASTED METHODS OF ^ESCHYLUS AND SOPHOCLES. 307 

Euripides. Sophocles occupies the mean between two extremes, as 
further analysis will show. 

II. 

Since the chronological order of the plays of Sophocles is uncertain, 
we may be justified in beginning with the Electra, which has this 
advantage that it treats the myths celebrated by ^Eschylus in his im- 
mortal tragedy. This will serve to show us how the characters received 
an individual stamp, and how details take the place of the earlier 
broad treatment. The conflict between them, it will be seen, bears 
rather the appearance of personal antagonism than of the collision of 
diverse fates. We shall notice other changes, too, such as the closer 
interweaving of the scenes, and, in general, greater care in the technical 
construction of stage effect, all of which, as well as the others that 
strike the reader's attention, are in the nature of a fuller evolution 
of the capacities of the Greek drama. 

The first technical difference between Sophocles and his master is 
this : that the later writer abandoned the form of the trilogy and wrote 
single plays, without regard to the principle of construction that ar- 
ranged three tragedies in orderly and dependent sequence. Possibly 
the growing competition enforced this change. At any rate we have 
the Electra standing alone, unconnected with any other play. The 
other most prominent distinction between this play and that of ^Eschy- 
lus is that it is Electra and not Orestes who is the prominent charac- 
ter. Her brother, though he wreaks vengeance with his own hand, is 
a comparatively unimportant character. The very choice of Electra 
for heroine marks an important difference ; she is not compelled by 
resistless fate to be an instrument in the terrible series of alternate 
vengeance that makes up the bloody story, and, by selecting her, 
Sophocles at once lent the myth a human aspect. He was able to 
represent her as the despised daughter of the detested Agamemnon, 
leading a wretched existence in her stepfather's house, a condition 
which was only made vivid to the spectators by their own experience 
or observation, and was not a part of the shadowy mythical inheri- 
tance. ^Eschylus was able to rest on the general knowledge of 
the legend ; Sophocles modified this by letting his heroine appear in 
almost a domestic character. How he developed this personage the 
play will show. It is interesting, by the way, to notice with what free- 
dom the myths could be treated. We have already seen their abun- 
dance in examining the poems of Pindar, and the poet could find some- 
where in this rich collection authority for variations. Moreover, he 
was not held down to over-precision ; he enjoyed a certain amount of 
liberty, as did Shakspere in his historical plays, and Sir Walter Scott 



3°8 SOPHOCLES. 

and Alexandre Dumas in their romances. The way in which the last- 
named made over history to suit his purpose, as in the conflicting 
accounts of the death of Henry II., in his "DeuxDianes" and his "Le 
Page du Due de Savoie," indicate the sort of freedom that the Greek 
writers enjoyed. Precision of detail was regarded less than vividness 
of impression. 

The play opens with the entrance of Orestes with Pylades and his 
attendant, and the first speech of the play, that of the aged servant, 
at once sets before the spectator, or, in these days, the reader, the 
motive of the tragedy. 

" Now, son of Agamemnon, who of old 
Led our great hosts at Troy, 'tis thine to see 
What long thou hast desired. For lo ! there lies 
The ancient Argos, which, with yearning wish, 
Thou oft didst turn to ; here the sacred grove 
Of her who wandered, spurred by ceaseless sting, 
Daughter of Inachos : and this, Orestes, 
Is the wide agora, Lykeian named 
In honour of the god who slew the wolves ; 
Here on the left, the shrine of Hera famed ; 
And where we stand, Mykenae, rich in gold, 
Thou look'st upon, in slaughter also rich, 
The house of Pelops' line. Here, long ago, 
After thy father's murder I received thee, 
At thy dear sister's hands, to kindred true ; 
And took thee, saved thee, reared thee in my home, 
To this thy manhood, destined to avenge 
Thy father's death. Now, therefore, O my son, 
Orestes, and thou, Pylades, most dear 
Of all true friends, we needs must quickly plan 
What best to do. For lo ! the sun's bright rays 
Wake up the birds to tune their matin songs, 
And star-decked night's dark shadows flee away ; 
Ye, then, before ye enter, taking rest, 
The roof of living man, hold conference ; 
For as things are, we may not linger on : 
The time is come for action." 

This compact exposition of the conditions under which the play 
opens is followed by a speech of Orestes in which he announces the 
plan he has formed : the servant, who from lapse of time is no longer 
to be recognized, is to introduce himself to ^Egisthus and Clytemnes- 
tra as a stranger, a Phokaean, recommended to them by Phanoteus, 
their friend. He is to tell the guilty pair that Orestes was killed by 
an accident at the Pythian games — a pardonable anachronism, for 
these games were established 586 B.C., and the statement is to be con- 
firmed by Orestes himself, who shall appear with Pylades, bearing an 
urn that is to be presented as the receptacle of the young man's ashes. 
Then, suspicion being allayed, Orestes will take swift vengeance. So 
far the prologue confines itself to the familiar legendary plot, except 



THE PLAINT OF ELECTRA. 



3°9 



in the introduction of the urn, and presents as a distinctive trait per- 
haps nothing more than a compressed though vivid style. Yet, at the 
very end of his speech, when Orestes is saying : 

" And now, old friend, 'tis thine to watch thy task : 
We twain go forth. The true, right time is come, 
That mightiest master of all works of men," 

at that moment Electra is heard within, saying : 

" Woe, woe is me ! O misery ! " 

This cry sounds the key-note of the tragedy, which practically lies 
in the torn soul of Electra. The attendant says that he thought he 



^^^^^^^^sm^^^^m^^_ 




Hi 



e/M^/^i^lMI^Mf^SSI^ 



DECORATING A TOMB. 



heard the sound of some one wailing within, and Orestes suggests that 
it may be Electra, and asks if they shall remain and listen, but this 
plan is condemned by the attendant and they all depart. No sooner 
are they gone than Electra appears wailing her misery in an ode that 
runs as follows : 



" O holy light, and air that overcanopiest the whole earth, thou hast heard 
many songs of my wailings, many blows straight-handed on my bleeding 
breast, when dark night has sunk. The bed — I hate it — in this doleful 
house knows well how I keep revel in the long night, and weep for my un- 
happy father, whom in a strange land murdering Ares did not welcome, but 
my mother and her bedfellow, ^Egisthus, as woodcutters cleave an oak's head 



3 IQ SOPHOCLES. 

with a murdering axe. And for this no pity revokes from another, but from 
me — that you died, my father, so shamefully, pitifully ! I will not cease my 
wailing, and miserable weeping, so long as I shall see the bright shiverings 
of the stars and this daylight. But like a nightingale whose children are 
dead, with wailing before these my father's doors I will cry aloud for all to 
hear. O home of Hades and Persephone, O Hermes of the under world, 
and holy Ara, and the Erinnyes, august children of the gods, who see those 
that die unjustly, and those that steal their wives from other men, come, 
help avenge my father's murder, and send me my brother ; since alone I can 
no longer set in the scale a weight to match my woe." 

With this the prologue ends, and is followed by the kommos, or the 
dirge sung by the chorus and an actor. The time that Orestes is de- 
voting to funeral sacrifices is employed by Electra in bewailing her 
misery and in rejecting the well-meant consolations of the chorus. The 
lyrical expression of her grief is followed by a long exposition of her 
sufferings in the usual language of tragedy. The chorus ask after her 
brother ; she says : 

He speaks of coming ; yet he nothing does. 
Cho. One who works great things oft is slow in them. 

To which Electra answers with a touch of personal feeling that con- 
tinually flashes into the tragedy : 

" I was not slow when I did save his life," 

a phrase that at once shows more vividly than even her eloquent ex- 
pounding of her woes that it is an impatient sister, not a remote crea- 
ture of a legend, who is speaking. This same character is further 
brought out in the conversation that follows between Electra and her 
younger sister Chrysothemis, an absolutely commonplace person, who 
comes forward to remonstrate with Electra for excessive lamentation : 

" What plaint is this thou utterest, sister dear, 
Here at the outlet of the palace gates ? 
And wilt not learn the lessons time should teach 
To yield no poor compliance to a wrath 
That is but vain ? This much myself I know : 
I grieve at what befalls us. Had I strength, 
I would show plainly what I think of them ; 
But now it seems most wise in weather foul 
To slack my sail, and make no idle show 
Of doing something when I cannot harm," etc., etc. 

We are not in the accustomed region of the ^Eschylean tragedy, but 
where the tragic condition is rendered human by this flavor of misun- 
derstanding. We see a proud, long-suffering girl compelled to listen 
to the jarring worldly wisdom of a weak, time-serving sister, and the 
familiar complexities of domestic life at once set forth the heroine's 
distress in the most universally intelligible manner. The chafing of 



WOMEN IN SOPHOCLES' PLA VS. 3 11 

family life appealed to every listener. The change was a subtle one. 
We think of the domesticity of the characters of ^Eschylus as little 
as we do of that of statues, yet that author must have often chosen 
women for the leading roles ; thus among the titles of his last trag- 
edies are Iphigeneia, Niobe, Penelope, Semele, Europe, etc., so that 
Sophocles was not the first to give women prominence in tragedy I 
what he did was to draw them with some of the traits of human 
life. Not with all, for the obvious peril of the change was triviality, 
and this he avoided by the same art that Shakspere employed in 
delineating Desdemona, Juliet, and Lady Macbeth. 

If Chrysothemis is represented rather as a light-weight, she has 
at least the advantage of possessing some judgment, and Electra, 
intense as is her feeling, escapes shrewishness. The younger sister 
indeed gives discreet advice ; she gives Electra warning of Clytem- 
nestra's determination to imprison her ; naturally Electra is not intimi- 
dated by this news. Chrysothemis asks her : 

" Hast thou no care for this thy present life ? " 

Electra answers : 

A goodly life for men to wonder at ! 
Chrys. So might it be if thou would'st wisdom learn. 

Elec. Teach me no baseness to the friends I love. 
Chrys. I teach not that, yet kings must be obeyed. 

Elec. Fawn as thou wilt ; thy fashion is not mine. 

One perceives the wisdom of weakness and the folly of enthusiasm 
in their unending and unequal strife. The anger of Electra is only 
heightened when she hears that Chrysothemis had been sent out to 
place funeral offerings on her father's tomb by Clytemnestra, who 
was terrified by an alarming dream. She bids her sister to set the 
offerings aside, and instead to lay on the tomb locks from the head 
of both herself and Chrysothemis, and to pray that Orestes may soon 
return. This Chrysothemis agrees to do, being further urged by the 
chorus, and after she is gone the chorus sing an ode preparatory to 
the following scene, which brings Clytemnestra herself face to face 
with Electra. Here the dramatic action halts while the exposition 
goes on, but this is most vivid. Clytemnestra is flown with insolence ; 
she abuses Electra for taking advantage of the absence of ^Egisthus to 
go outside of the palace, thereby disgracing her friends. It is never 
forgotten, the reader will notice, that Electra is a stepdaughter as well 
as an unfortunate heroine. Then Clytemnestra takes up the subject of 
enmity between them and boldly defends the murder of Agamemnon, 
on the ground that he had sacrificed Iphigeneia. 



3 12 SOPHOCLES. 

" Was he not 
In this a reckless father found and base ? 
I answer, yes, though thou refuse assent ; 
And she that died would say it, could she speak. 
1 then feel no remorse for what is done." 

She thus attains the height of exultation in her crime, and, in her 
arrogant security, gives Electra leave to plead her cause. She is not 
backward : 

" Thou say'st thy hand 
Did'st slay my father ! Is there aught of shame 
Than this more shameful, whether thou can'st urge, 
Or not, the plea of justice ? But I say 
Thou did'st not justly slay him, but wast led 
By vile suggestion of the coward base 
Who now lives with thee." 

And further on : 

" For should we evermore take blood for blood, 
Thou would'st fall first, if thou did'st get thy due." 

And, to make one more quotation : 

"But since to speak 
A word of counsel is not granted us, 
Though thou dost love to speak all words of ill, 
That ' we revile a mother '; yet I look 
On thee as more my mistress than my mother, 
Living a woeful life, by many ills 
Encompassed which proceed from thee, and him, 
The partner of thy guilt. That other one, 
My poor Orestes, hardly 'scaped from thee, 
Drags on a weary life. Full oft hast thou 
Charged me with rearing him to come at last 
A minister of vengeance ; and I own, 
Had I but strength, be sure of this, 'twere done." 

After fierce recriminations between the mother and daughter, Electra 
retires to the back of the stage to let her mother place the funeral 
offerings and to pray that the evil that the dreams forebode may be 
prevented, and further that the god may grant the secret, unspoken 
wishes of her heart, meaning by these release from peril at the hands 
of Orestes. The exposition is complete ; the queen could go no 
further. 

If this scene offends us moderns by the long arguments that com- 
pose it, we must remember how important a thing was eloquence in 
the life of the Athenians. One reason of its influence was the lack of 
material for reading, a condition that augmented the power of public 
speech just as the present facility for addressing others with the aid 
of the printing-press tends to destroy the power of eloquence. Not 



GREEK ORATORY AND THE DRAMA. 3 l 3 

only were public matters publicly debated with all the openness of 
a New England town-meeting, but it was also customary for private 
litigants to argue their own causes. We shall meet many additional 
proofs of the dependence of the quick-witted Athenians on discus- 
sion and conversation, which were still a part of eloquence. Perhaps 
the most marked instance of its predominance is to be seen in the 
fact that Thucydides in his history continually let the course of 
events be presented in the form of the speeches of prominent states- 
men. That was the language which most nearly addressed his coun- 
trymen, and Sophocles in these speeches of Clytemnestra and Electra 
was affected by the same influence. Just as Shakspere in the quib- 
bles that are to be found in his speeches or conversations reflects the 
new-born euphemisms of his day, so did Sophocles reflect the argumen- 
tative eloquence of Athens. Every art, indeed, mirrors the conditions 
in which it flourishes, just as every man bears some marks of his 
education. In the Greek sculpture it is not more impossible to trace 
the influence of the material which abounded in Attica than it is to see 
the authority of the Byzantine mosaics in early modern painting. The 
calm self-possession of the faces, the broad masses, of the Greek sculp- 
ture indicate, as Curtius has said, another origin than that of the 
lighter, bolder figures which are worked in metal. And the condi- 
tions of the material demanded from the artist in marble a grace 
and seriousness, a dignity of repose, which would not have been re- 
quired by another material. Somewhat like this is the influence that 
the Greek eloquence had upon the forms of literature and notably 
upon the drama. It affected the modes of thought and their expres- 
sion in a way that does not at first explain itself to us, and while to 
the Greeks this controversy helped to give a human setting to the 
play, it may seem to us to retard the action. We have seen another 
illustration in the predominance of the choral passages in the early 
tragedies, which was the direct result of the absorption by the drama 
of the ripest form of literary expression, and in the eloquence and 
arguments of Sophocles we see again the direct influence of the 
habits of the time in which he lived. Exactly in the same way do 
we see the marks of the heroic romances throughout Shakspere, in the 
language, in the indistinct geographical setting, in fact in all the hues 
of local color. For a single example take the Prince of Morocco in 
the Merchant of Venice ; he has stepped straight out of a romance, 
and his origin could never have been for a moment doubtful to the 
playwright's contemporaries. Moreover, the protracted discussions 
which begin to be frequent in Sophocles, and are almost the whole 
stock in trade of Euripides, also represent the new spirit of doubt that 
was to make itself felt in philosophy. ^Eschylus believed without 



314 SOPHOCLES. 

misgiving ; but that quality disappeared gradually, and here we see 
the traces of its decay. 

To return to the tragedy after this long digression : we find the 
prayer of Clytemnestra followed by the entrance of the guardian of 
Orestes, who, as has been planned, brings false tidings of that young 
hero's death at the Pythian games. This he does in a vivid descrip- 
tion of a chariot race, and while the chorus lament Clytemnestra 
gasps out : 

" O Zeus ! What means this . . . shall I say, good news ? 
Or fearful, yet most gainful ? Still 'tis sad 
If by my sorrows I must save my life." 

Certainly tragedy sweeps by here. 

When the guardian asks with curious affectation of curiosity, she 

answers : 

" Wondrous and strange the force of motherhood ! 
Though wronged, a mother cannot hate her children." 

This may well be counted among the few intense points of tragedy 
which the long life of the human race and its many miseries have been 
able to leave on the page of literature. The guardian goes on : 

" We then, it seems, are come to thee in vain." 

To which Clytemnestra makes reply : 

" Nay, not in vain. How could it be in vain ? 
Since thou bring'st proofs that he is dead, who, born 
Child of my heart, from breasts that gave him suck 
Then turned aside, and dwelt on foreign soil 
In banishment ; and since he left our land 
Ne'er came to see me, but with dreadful words, 
His father's death still casting upon me, 
Spake out his threats, so that nor day nor night 
I knew sweet sleep, but still the sway of time 
Led on my life, as one condemned to death. 
But now, for lo ! this day has stopped all fear 
From her and him, for she was with me still, 
The greater mischief, sucking out my life, 
My very heart's blood : now for all her threats, 
We shall live on and pass our days in peace." 

We are back again in the relentless tragedy, and after the faint flick- 
ering of a mother's love Clytemnestra clenches her teeth and hardens 
her heart against every trace of human affection. She is ready to 
carry out what Lady Macbeth says : 

" I have given suck, and know 
How tender 'tis to love the babe that milks me ; « 

I would, while it was smiling in my face, 
Have pluck'd my nipple from his boneless gums, 
And dash'd the brains out, had I so sworn as you 
Have done to this." 



ELECTRA WITH THE FUNERAL URN OF ORESTES. 315 

Against this extreme of wanton insolence and unnatural cruelty, the 
poet sets the agony of Electra, who feels that every hope is gone. 
Her lamentations, however, are interrupted by her sister, who comes 
running in with the tidings that she has just found on the tomb the 
offering that, it will be remembered, Orestes had placed there, and that 
she felt sure that they had been laid there by him. Electra, who 
meanwhile has heard of the death of Orestes, pays no attention to 
these facts, which seem of no importance, but entreats her sister's aid 
in murdering ^Egisthus. Naturally Chrysothemis refuses to further 
this bold plan. 

In the next scene Orestes and Pylades appear with an attendant 
who carries a funeral urn ; Electra takes this urn in her hands, and 
utters the most pathetic lament. This speech and the scene of recog- 
nition between her and Orestes will be found just below. The reader 
will notice how much Sophocles has altered the story as it is told by 
^Eschylus, and how much these changes add to the pathos of the play. 
The steady accumulation of misery exalts her desire for vengeance, 
and brings out more clearly her hopeless loneliness, with her mother 
cruel, her sister timid and indifferent, her brother, as she believes, 
dead. 

The slaying of Clytemnestra follows quickly, and, by a wise modifi- 
cation, she is the first to fall, while Orestes is hot with wrath, rather 
than from the determination to fulfill the commands of the gods, as in 
the Chcephorae. ^Egisthus then enters, and on approaching to see the 
body of Orestes the veil is removed, and he sees Clytemnestra dead 
before him. The rest is done in a moment, and the play ends with 
yEgisthus killed. 

Elec. [Takmg the urn in her hands •.] O sole memorial of his life whom 
most 
Of all alive I loved ! Orestes mine, 
With other thoughts I sent thee forth than these 
With which I now receive thee. Now, I bear 
In these my hands what is but nothingness ; 
But sent thee forth, dear boy, in bloom of youth. 
Ah, would that I long since had ceased to live 
Before I sent thee to a distant shore, 
With these my hands, and saved thee then from death ! 
So had'st thou perished on that self-same day, 
And had a share in that thy father's tomb. 
But now from home, an exile in a land 
That was not thine, without thy sister near, 
So did'st thou die, and I, alas, poor me ! 
Did neither lay thee out with lustral rites 
And loving hands, nor bear thee, as was meet, 
Sad burden, from the blazing funeral pyre ; 
But thou, poor sufferer, tended by the hands 
Of strangers, comest, in this paltry urn, 
In paltry bulk. Ah ! miserable me ! 



ELECTRA WITH THE FUXERAL URN OF ORESTES. 



3*7 



Chor. 



Ores. 



Elec. 
Ores. 
Elec. 
Ores. 
Elec. 
Ores. 
Elec. 
Ores. 
Elec. 
Ores. 
Elec. 
Ores. 
Elec. 
Ores. 
Elec. 
Ores. 
Elec. 
Ores. 
Elec. 
Ores. 
Elec. 
Ores. 



For all the nurture, now so profitless, 

Which I was wont with sweetest toil to give 

For thee, my brother. Never did she love, 

Thy mother, as I loved thee ; nor did they 

Who dwell within there nurse thee, but 'twas I, 

And I was ever called thy sister true ; 

But now all this has vanished in a day 

In this thy death ; for, like a whirlwind, thou 

Hast passed, and swept off all. My father falls ; 

I perish ; thou thyself hast gone from sight ; 

Our foes exult. Thy mother, wrongly named, 

For mother she is none, is mad with joy, 

Of whom thou oft did'st sent word secretly 

That thou would'st come, and one day show thyself 

A true avenger. But thine evil fate, 

Thine and mine also, hath bereaved me of thee, 

And now hath sent, instead of that dear form, 

This dust, this shadow, vain and profitless. 

Woe, woe is me ! 

piteous, piteous corpse ! 
Thou dearest, who did'st tread 

(Woe, woe is me !) 
Paths full of dread and fear, 
How hast thou brought me low, 
Yea, brought me very low, thou dearest one ! 
Therefore receive thou me to this thine home, 
Ashes to ashes, that with thee below 

1 may from henceforth dwell. When thou wast here 
I shared with thee an equal lot, and now 

I crave in dying not to miss thy tomb ; 

For those that die I see are freed of grief. 

Thou, O Electra, take good heed, wast born 

Of mortal father, mortal, too, Orestes ; 

Yield not too much to grief. To suffer thus 

Is common lot of all. 

[Trembling^ Ah, woe is me ! 

What shall I say? Ah, whither find my way 

In words confused ? I fail to rule my speech. 

What grief disturbs thee ? Wherefore speak'st thou thus ? 

Is this Electra's noble form I see ? 

That self-same form, and sad enough its state. 

Alas, alas, for this sad lot of thine ! 

Surely thou dost not wail, O friend, for me? 

O form most basely, godlessly misused ! 

Thy words ill-omened fall on none but me. 

Alas, for this thy life of lonely woe ! 

Why, in thy care for me, friend, groanest thou ? 

How little knew I of my fortune's ills ! 

What have I said to throw such light on them ? 

Now that I see thee clad with many woes. 

And yet thou see'st but few of all mine ills. 

What could be sadder than all this to see ? 

This, that I sit at meat with murderers. 

With whose? What evil dost thou mean by this? 

My father's ; next, I'm forced to be their slave. 

And who constrains thee to this loathed task ? 

My mother she is called, no mother like. 

How so ? By blows, or life with hardships full ? 

Both blows and hardships, and all forms of ill. 

And is there none to help, not one to check ? 



3 l8 SOPHOCLES. 

Elec. No, none. Who was . . . thou bringest him as dust. 

Ores. O sad one ! Long I pitied as I gazed ! 

Elec. Know, then, that thou alone dost pity me. 

Ores. For I alone come suffering woes like thine. 

Elec. What ? Can it be thou art of kin to us ? 

Ores. If these are friendly, I could tell thee more. 

Elec. Friendly are they ; thou'lt speak to faithful ones. 

Ores. Put by that urn, that thou may'st hear the whole. 

Elec. Ah, by the gods, O stranger, ask not that. 

Ores. Do what I bid thee, and thou shalt not err. 

Elec. Nay, by thy beard, of that prize rob me not. 

Ores. I may not have it so. 

Elec. Ah me, Orestes, 

How wretched I, bereaved of this thy tomb ! 
Ores. Hush, hush such words ; thou hast no cause for wailing. 
Elec. Have I no cause, who mourn a brother's death ? 
Ores. Thou hast no call to utter speech like this. 
Elec. Am I then deemed unworthy of the dead ? 
Ores. Of none unworthy. This is nought to thee. 
Elec. Yet if I hold Orestes' body here. 
Ores. 'Tis not Orestes' save in show of speech. 
Elec. Where, then, is that poor exile's sepulchre? 
Ores. Nay, of the living there's no sepulchre. 
Elec. What say'st thou, boy ? 

Ores. No falsehood what I say. 

Elec. And does he live ? 

Ores. He lives, if I have life. 

Elec. What ? Art thou he ? 
Ores. Look thou upon this seal, 

My father's once, and learn if I speak truth. 
Elec. O blessed light ! 

Ores. Most blessed, I too own. 

Elec. O voice ! And art thou come ? 
Ores. No longer learn 

Thy news from others. 
Elec. And I have thee here, 

Here in my grasp ? 
Ores. So may'st thou always have me ! 

Elec. O dearest friends, my fellow-citizens, 

Look here on this Orestes, dead indeed 

In feigned craft, and by that feigning saved. 
Chor. We see it, daughter, and at what has chanced 

A tear of gladness trickles from our eyes. 
ELEC. O offspring, offspring of a form most dear, 

Ye came, ye came at last, 

Ye found us, yea, ye came, 

Ye saw whom ye desired. 
Ores. Yes, we are come. Yet wait and hold thy peace. 
Elec. What now? 

Ores. Silence is best, lest some one hear within. 
Elec. Nay, nay. By Artemis, 

The ever-virgin One, 

I shall not deign to dread 

Those women there within, 

With worthless burden still 

Cumbering the ground. 
Ores. See to it, for in women too there lives 

The strength of battle. Thou hast proved it well. 
Elec. [sobbing] Ah, ah ! Ah me ! 




ORESTES AND ELECTRA, 
{Knozun as the Menelaus Group.} 



SOPHOCLES. 

There thou hast touched upon a woe unveiled, 
That knows no healing, no 
Nor ever may be hid. 
ORES. I know it well. But, when occasion bids, 

Then should we call those deeds to memory. 
Elec. All time for me is lit, 

Yea, all, to speak of this 

With wrath as it deserves ; 

Till now I had scant liberty of speech. 
Ores. There we are one. Preserve, then, what thou 

hast. 
Elec. And what, then, shall I do ? 
Ores. When time serves not, 

Speak not o'ermuch. 
Elec. And who then worthily, 

Now thou art come, would choose 

Silence instead of speech ? 

For lo ! I see thee now unlooked, unhoped for. 
Ores. Then thou did'st see me here, 

When the gods urged my coming. 
Elec. Thou hast said 

What mounts yet higher than thy former boon, 

If God has sent thee forth 

To this our home, I deem 

The work as heaven's own deed. 
Ores. Loth am I to restrain thee in thy joy, 

And yet I fear delight o'ermasters thee. 
Elec. O thou who after many a weary year 

At last has deigned to come 

(Oh, coming of great joy !) 

Do not, thus seeing me 

Involved in many woes .... 
Ores. What is it that thou ask'st me not to do ? 
Elec. Deprive me not, nor force me to forego 

The joy supreme of looking on thy face. 
Ores. I should be wroth with others who would force 

thee. 
Elec. Dost thou consent, then ? 
Ores. How act otherwise ? 

Elec. Ah, friends, I heard a voice 

Which never had I dreamt would come to me ; 

Then I kept in my dumb and passionate mood, 
Nor cried I, as I heard ; 

But now I have thee ; thou hast come to me 

With face most precious, dear to look upon, 

Which e'en in sorrow I can ne'er forget. 
Ores. All needless words pass over. Tell me not 

My mother's shame, nor how yEgisthos drains 

My father's wealth, much wastes, and scatters much ; 

Much speech might lose occasion's golden hour ; 

But what fits in to this our present need, 

That tell me, where, appearing or concealed, 

We best shall check our boasting enemies, 

In this our enterprise ; so when we twain 

Go to the palace, look to it, that she note not, 

Thy mother, by thy blither face, our coming, 

But mourn as for that sorrow falsely told. 

When we have prospered, then shalt thou have leave 

Freely to smile, and joy exultingly. 



COMPARISON OF EURIPIDES, jESCHYLUS AND SOPHOCLES. 3 2 * 

ELEC. Yes, brother dear ! Whatever pleaseth thee, 

That shall be my choice also, since my joy 

I had not of mine own, but gained from thee, 

Nor would I cause thee e'en a moment's pain, 

Myself to reap much profit. I should fail, 

So doing, to work His will who favors us. 

What meets us next, thou knowest, dost thou not ? 

^Egisthos, as thou hearest, gone from home ; 

Thy mother there within, of whom fear not 

Lest she should see my face look blithe with joy ; 

For my old hatred eats into my soul, 

And, since I've seen thee, I shall never cease 

To weep for very joy. How could I cease, 

Who in this one short visit looked on thee 

Dead, and alive again ? Strange things to-day 

Hast thou wrought out, so strange that should there come 

My father, in full life, I should not deem 

'Twas a mere marvel, but believe I saw him. 

But, since thou com'st on such an enterprise, 

Rule thou as pleases thee. Were I alone, 

I had not failed of two alternatives, 

Or nobly had I saved myself, or else 

Had nobly perished. 
Ores. Silence now is best : 

I hear the steps of some one from within, 

As if approaching. 

From this account of the Electra the reader may judge of the dif- 
ference between the art of Sophocles and that of ^schylus, and 
since Euripides also wrote a play on the same subject we shall be able 
later to make a comparison of the three masters of tragedy. Yet, as 
will be seen, a hasty generalization will have to be avoided, because 
the Electra of Euripides does that poet less credit than some of his 
other plays. The Electra of Sophocles, though not his greatest piece, 
contains a good share of what is best in his work, pathos, for example, 
eloquence, ingenious construction, and, above all, the seriousness which 
is so marked a characteristic of the great Greek tragedians as it is of 
Shakspere. This is shown in the way that all the diverse merits are 
subordinated to the utterance of the profoundest truths regarding 
human life. In the earlier lyric poety of Greece, literary excellence 
of a rare sort was to be found, but it had one of the qualities that ac- 
crue to complete art finding expression in an artificial, conventional, 
and above all in so compact form, namely, that it lacks life, whatever 
other qualities it may possess, just as a witticism generally lacks the 
highest wisdom. The Greeks when writing lyrics were cutting gems, 
and that is an occupation which possesses a certain insignificance by 
the side of sculpture, and their tragedies possess a fullness of life, an 
abundance of suggestion and implication, such as only the highest art 
can convey. Every detached statement is but partly true ; it is only an 
accumulation of them that can really throw light on life, and while the 



322 SOPHOCLES. 

brilliant flashes of the lyrics delight us, tease us with vivid, brief frag- 
ments of truth, it is from the great, glowing mass of the tragedy, with 
its wholeness of vision, that we get the feeling of great aid, or of the 
vast solemnity of human existence. 

III. 

In the Antigone we find, as it were, a distinct resemblance to the 
Electra that may justify its examination in this place. It is known 
that it was the thirty-second play in the order of composition, and was 
thus written when the art of Sophocles had reached its highest per- 
fection. The qualities of the play would alone prove this. In antiq- 
uity it received especial admiration, and although the plot depends 
on conditions that do not forcibly appeal to us this fact does not lessen 
the enthusiasm of modern readers ; the skill, the grace, the pathos of 
the poet yet and ever exercise their charm. The reader will remem- 
ber that at the end of the Seven against Thebes the body of Poly- 
neices, slain in his attack on the city, was ordered to be left unburied, 
and that Antigone avowed her determination to inter it, in spite of 
this direct command. This is the whole subject of the Antigone, 
though whether it was from yEschylus, or from some one else who 
added to the play, is a debated question. Whoever wrote it, this is 
the plot of the play of Sophocles. 

As in the Electra, we have two sisters holding different views ; Antig- 
one urges Ismene to join her in the plan she has formed of burying 
their brother, but is met by timidity and reluctance. In the first scene 
not only the action of the play, but the character of Antigone and the 
opposition that she is to meet with, are clearly indicated with the 
swiftness and vividness that mark a master's hand. Antigone has all 
the determination, but not violence, that is required for the deliberate 
violation of a king's command, and it is the firmness and unswerving 
courage of her character that is enforced throughout. Naturally 
enough these traits cannot be brought out without the sacrifice of the 
opposite qualities ; hence there adheres to Antigone a flavor of harsh- 
ness which can scarcely fail to strike modern readers, whose womanly 
ideal for centuries has been a docile and yielding being without a will 
or, one may say, a mind of her own. The prudent and timid Ismene 
is much more nearly a modern heroine than is her sister, who, single 
handed, fights in defense of piety against despotic law. 

After Creon has pronounced his edict that no one shall pay any 
honors to the corpse of Polyneices, a guard enters, and with all the 
clumsiness that in our novels and plays is put in the mouth of an Irish 
or Scotch peasant informs the king that some one has paid honors to 



GREEK TRAGEDY NOT ARTIFICIAL. $23 

the dead soldier ; soon the guilty Antigone is brought in before 
Creon, who asks if it was she who dared to disobey his laws. 

" Yes," she answers, " for it was not Zeus that gave them forth, 
Nor Justice, dwelling with the gods below, 
Who traced these laws for all the sons of men ; 
Nor did I deem thy edicts strong enough, 
That thou, a mortal man, should'st over-pass 
The unwritten laws of God that know not change. 
They are not of to-day nor yesterday, 
But live forever, nor can man assign 
When first they sprang to being. Not through fear 
Of any man's resolve was I prepared 
Before the gods to bear the penalty 
Of sinning against these. That I should die 
I know, (how should I not ?) though thy decree 
Had never spoken. And, before my time 
If I shall die, I reckon this a gain ; 
For whoso lives, as I, in many woes, 
How can it be but he shall gain by death ? 
And so for me to bear this doom of thine 
Has nothing painful. But, if I had left 
My mother's son unburied on his death, 
In that I should have suffered ; but in this 
I suffer not. And should I seem to thee 
To do a foolish deed, 'tis simply this, — 
I bear the charge of folly from a fool." 

Here we have a complete statement of Antigone's ground of action, 
and in the last fling we have a vigorous disproof of the error that has 
become a part of the conception of Greek tragedy as a cold and arti- 
ficial thing. 

Just before, the half-amusing thick-wittedness of the soldier has 
shown that not in modern times alone have writers been able to enrich 
their work with little touches of nature, such as one is unaccustomed 
to expect in Greek tragedies ; for these have been spoken of as remote 
and inaccessible storehouses of difficult figures of speech, icy meta- 
phors, and fantastic feeling. Yet the more they are examined the 
richer are they found in human sympathies. It is not easy for us to 
form a satisfactory conception of the extent to which this very play 
would appeal to all Greeks with their vivid feeling of the necessity of 
conferring funeral rites upon their dead ; but through this crust of ob- 
solete ceremonial there breathes the human soul in trouble, and that 
is enough. In the speech just given of Antigone it is not lack of 
sympathy that we feel ; we see the earnest sense of duty that animates 
the heroine, her wrath, and the engaging candor of her tongue. She 
is preparing her own fate, just as truly as, on the other hand, we may 
see in Creon the personification of rigid laws obstinately deaf to all 
the surrounding influences that gradually place themselves in oppo- 
sition to his cruelty. 



3 2 4 



SOPHOCLES. 



Ismene is accused by him of aiding Antigone in her opposition to 
his commands, and wishes to share her sister's punishment, but her 
generosity only serves as a foil to Antigone's cruel isolation. Ismene 
further entreats Creon to pardon Antigone, who is betrothed to his son 
Haemon, and the chorus add their prayers, but the tyrant is obstinate. 
Haemon himself urges his father to clemency, pointing out the king's 
advantage rather than his own personal wishes, but in vain. Creon 
orders Antigone to be immured in a cave to die alone. Every interfer- 
ence is fruitless, and Antigone is borne to her living tomb, mourning 
her untimely fate, but not shaken in her consciousness of right-doing. 
The chorus sympathize with her, and it is interesting to notice how 
certainly, if slowly, sympathy is aroused in behalf of the doomed 
heroine. Their pity, too, is made to appear more valuable by her 

rigidity and harshness. Had she 
shown an appealing gentleness or 
grace, she would have never lacked 
defenders, but without them she 
finally won the sincerest pity. 

After Creon's orders have been 
carried out, the old seer Teiresias 
appears and foretells all manner of 
woe to Creon, who finally consents 
to yield. But it is too late. The 
messenger enters with tidings of 
Haemon's death by his own hands, 
after a vain effort to kill his father, by 
the side of Antigone, who had 
hanged herself. Eurydice, Creon's 
wife, hears this news with horror and 
disappears ; soon another messen- 
ger comes in to announce that she 
too has slain herself, and Creon's cup 
of unhappiness is full, his spirit is 
broken. The tragic conflict has at 
least not been complicated by sym- 
pathy with him. Indeed, there is a 
repellant quality in both Creon 
and Antigone which gives them 
a similitude rather to abstract personifications than to living beings, 
and when we remember how frequently this play was translated at the 
time of the Renaissance we may perhaps conjecture that some of the 
coldness of the early imitations of the classical plays was inspired by 
the willful copying of this fault, which seemed to have all the authority 




TEIRESIAS. 



REALITIES OF LIFE THE SUBJECTS OF SOPHOCLES. 325 

of Greece behind it. It is not at first clear how much fanaticism like 
that which possessed Antigone fills the heart to the exclusion of other 
qualities, and the time had not yet come when poets had learned that 
bitterness and determination might be found in combination with 
softness and gentleness, and Antigone is a legendary heroine, not a 
modern Nihilist. 

Yet while the play moves in a remote region, there is scarcely any 
other work of Sophocles in which the lyrical part sounds a higher 
note, where the especial dramatic interest so thoroughly combines with 
the universal, lasting truth. Here we have Sophocles at his best, as 
in the first stasimon. The reader will notice at once the fact that the 
poet has chosen for his subject the realities of life, and is far removed 
from the consideration of the remote questions that agitated the soul 
of yEschylus. It is a modern who is speaking. 

stroph. 1. 

Chor. Many the forms of life. 

Wondrous and strange to see, 

But nought than man appears 

More wondrous and more strange. 

He, with the wintry gales, 

O'er the the white foaming sea, 

'Mid wild waves surging round, 

Wendeth his way across : 

Earth, of all Gods, from ancient days the first, 

Unworn and undecayed. 

He, with his ploughs that travel o'er and o'er, 

Furrowing with horse and mule, 

Wears ever year by year. 

AXTISTROPH. I. 

The thoughtless tribe of birds, 
The beasts that roam the fields, 
The brood in sea-depths born, 
He takes them all in nets 
Knotted in snaring mesh, 
Man, wonderful in skill. 
* And by his subtle arts 

He holds in sway the beasts 

That roam the fields, or tread the mountain's height, 

And brings the binding yoke 

Upon the neck of horse with shaggy mane, 

Or bull on mountain crest, 

Untamable in strength. 

STROPH. 11. 

And speech, and thought as swift as wind. 
And tempered mood for higher life of states 
These he has learnt, and how to flee 
Or the clear cold of frost unkind, 
Or darts of storm and shower, 



326 SOPHOCLES. 

Man all-providing. Unprovided, he 

Meeteth no chance the coming days may bring ; 

Only from Hades, still 

He fails to find escape, 

Though skill of art may teach him how to flee 

From depths of fell disease incurable. 

ANTISTROPH. II. 

So, gifted with a wondrous might, 

Above all fancy's dreams, with skill to plan, 

Now unto evil, now to good, 

He turns. While holding fast the laws, 

His country's sacred rights, 

That rest upon the oath of Gods on high, 

High in the State : an outlaw from the State, 

When loving, in his pride, 

The thing that is not good ; 

Ne'er may he share my hearth, nor yet my thoughts, 

Who worketh deeds of evil like to this. 

Even more impressive is the second stasimon, given below, although 
in both of these extracts it is impossible not to observe how much the 
author seems to be sitting outside of his work, and to be commenting 
upon it, in a most impressive and beautiful way, to be sure, but yet 
with a different conception of the quality of the choral performance 
from that which we saw in ^Eschylus. In other words, the drama was 
undergoing its normal development, in which action becomes more 
prominent, and the lyric part is still a graceful accompaniment, 
but distinctly an accompaniment ; its further modification will 
be seen in the work of Euripides. It is not an actor in the 
play who indulges in these reflections on human life, but the 
author, who takes advantage of the pause in the action to accen- 
tuate the mood into which he wishes to throw his hearers. The 
whole conception of the drama is in process of change — he would be 
a bold man who would say whether for the better or the worse, for 
in the whole modification something is lost for everything that is 
gained ; it remains for us to notice the course of events, and, by 
understanding it, to be able to appreciate what was done. Such con- 
duct has at least one swift and sure reward : comprehension of dif- 
ferent conditions can not fail to bring an enlargement of the capacity 
of enjoyment. A botanist, for example, will love all flowers. 

STROPH. I. 

CHOR. Blessed are those whose life no woe doth taste ! 
For unto those whose house 
The Gods have shaken, nothing fails of curse 
Or woe, that creeps to generations far. 
E'en thus a wave, (when spreads, 
With blasts from Thrakian coasts. 



EX TRA C T FR OM ' ' A NTIGOA r E." 3 2 7 

The darkness of the deep,) 

Up from the sea's abyss 

Hither and thither rolls the black sand on ; 

And even- jutting peak, 

Swept by the storm-wind's strength, 

Lashed by the fierce wild waves. 

Re-echoes with the far-resounding roar. 

ANTISTROPH. I. 

I see the woes that smote, in ancient days, 

The seed of Labdacos, 

Who perished long ago, with grief on grief 

Still falling, nor does this age rescue that ; 

Some god still smites it down, 

Nor have they any end : 

For now there rose a gleam, 

Over the last weak shoots. 

That sprang from out the race of CEdipus ; 

Yet this the blood-stained scythe 

Of those that reign below 

Cuts off relentlessly, 

And maddened speech, and frenzied rage of heart. 

5TROPH. II. 

Thy power. O Zeus, what haughtiness of man, 
Yea, what can hold in check ? 
Which neither sleep, that maketh all things old, 
Nor the long months of Gods that never fail. 
Can for a moment seize. 
But still as Lord supreme. 
Waxing not old with time, 
Thou dwellest in Thy sheen of radiancy 
On far Olympos' height. 

Through future near or far as through the past, 
• One law holds ever good, 

Naught comes to life of man unscathed throughout bv woe. 

ANTISTROPH. II. 

For hope to many comes in wanderings wild, 

A solace and support : 

To many as a cheat of fond desires. 

And creepeth still on him who knows it not, 

Until he burn his foot 

Within the scorching flame. 

Full well spake one of old. 

That evil ever seems to be as good 

To those whose thoughts of heart 

God leadeth unto woe, 

And without woe. he spends but shortest space of time. 

IV. 

It is to these choruses as well as to the vigor with which the char- 
acter of Antigone is drawn that the play owes its long-lived reputation. 
Yet while a trace of coldness adheres to this play, against the King 



3 28 SOPHOCLES. 

CEdipus no such charge can be brought. This tragedy is by general 
assent the best that Sophocles wrote, and none shows more clearly the 
changes that he introduced into the dramatic art. Then, too, there is 
perhaps some uncertainty as to how much blame is to be ascribed to 
the guilty king and how much is to be regarded as the work of blind 
fate, but to the Greeks this question may have been less important 
than it appears to us. The story was part of an old myth, and these 
myths, with all their obscurity, were practically ancient history, and 
were not subject to critical examination. They were frankly accepted 
without questioning, and even in the play, as we read it, the fault by 
which CEdipus falls is made to coincide with a defect in his character, 
and the vast impression of sympathy with the wretched hero dulls our 
desire to determine his strict accountability. Misery is misery, how- 
ever caused ; and we do not always have a case submitted to legal 
adjudication before granting our pity. 

At the beginning of the play, CEdipus, King of Thebes, appears 
among the populace, who are praying at the altar for divine aid against 
the pestilence that is afflicting them. An aged priest, in answer to his 
questions, asks him, who had long been their chief supporter, to find 
some succor for them. He makes reply that he had already sent 
Creon, his kinsman, to Delphi to learn what was to be done to save 
the state, and just then Creon returns with the order that the city 
purge itself of guilt by expelling from within its walls the murderers 
of Laius, a former king. CEdipus is at once anxious to obey the 
behest of the oracle, and promises all the assistance in his power, and 
to carry out his purpose he consults Teiresias, the blind seer, for such 
revelations as he may be able to make. Teiresias, however, declines 
to give any satisfactory information, on the ground that by so doing he 
will inflict pain on CEdipus. This answer makes the king furious, 
and he charges Teiresias with being an accomplice of the murderers 
of Laius. Thereupon the seer asserts that it is CEdipus who is 
the defiler of the land, that he is the murderer whom they seek, and 
that he lives in shame with his nearest kin, and he foretells his 
speedy downfall. These utterances CEdipus mistakes for mere angry 
denunciation, and he suspects that they are part of Creon's work, 
and when Creon appears he accuses him of treachery. CEdipus is 
full of wrath and distraught with pain at the discovery that he im- 
agines that he has made, while Creon is calm and reasonable. At the 
height of the quarrel, when the king has threatened Creon with death 
and Creon has refused to submit, Jocasta, the wife of CEdipus, the sis- 
ter of Creon, appears and tries to pacify her husband. She urges him 
to renew his trust in Creon, and as to Teiresias, she says that his 
pretended knowledge is mere pretension, for long since he told Laius 



(EDIT US AXD THE SEER. 329 

that the gods had said he was to die by his son's hand, whereas he was 
slain by robbers, and as to their son, they pierced his ankles and cast 
him forth on a lonely hill when but three days old. How then could 
he have been his father's murderer ? The truth then unrolls itself 
before GEdipus ; he remembers how he slew a stranger on the highway, 
and the worst fears threaten him lest he should be proved the mur- 
derer of Laius. But he does not yet suspect that Laius was his 
father ; he only fears lest, expelled from Thebes, he shall be a wan- 
derer on the face of the earth, unable to visit his parents from dread 
of the curse that awaits him, that he shall slay his father and marry 
his mother. He sends for the servant who brought the news of the 
murder of Laius; meanwhile news is brought to Jocasta of the death 
of Polybus of Corinth, who was thought to be the father of CEdipus, 
and the inaccuracy of the oracle appears to be certain, for the hands of 
CEdipus were not stained with his father's blood. The queen rejoices 
at this news, but her husband's anxiety is not wholly allayed ; the 
other peril, incestuous union with his mother, appears still to threaten 
him. The messenger, however, is able to assure him that he is not in 
fact the son of Polybus and Merope, but a foundling whom he him- 
self gave to Merope, and that she brought him up as her own son. 
This statement unfolds the whole terrible truth to Jocasta, who en- 
treats her husband to push his questioning no further, but he, on the 
track of his origin, can not pause, and when the shepherd appears who 
had been commissioned to make way with him but had spared his 
life out of pity, CEdipus plies him with eager inquiry. The whole 
horror then comes out ; Jocasta was his mother, and had plotted her 
son's death to evade the oracle, which had been completely fulfilled. 
CEdipus in horror leaves the stage. After a lyric interlude of the 
chorus, a messenger enters who tells how Jocasta had hanged herself 
and CEdipus had blinded himself; scarcely has he finished when the 
doors of the palace are thrown open, and CEdipus comes forward over- 
whelmed with misery. Creon, on whom the government has fallen, 
relieves the fierce strain of unhappiness that marks this scene by his 
generosity. CEdipus asks that he may go into banishment, and that 
his two daughters, Antigone and Ismene, may be kindly cared for. 
He begs, too, to have them brought in : 

" Could I but touch them with my hands, I feel 
Still I should have them mine, as when I saw." 

The children appear, and the whole black night of tragedy is at 
once condensed into a form of pathos that appeals to every reader 
who can place himself in the position of a spectator of the acted 



33° SOPHOCLES. 

play. The groping hands of the guilty king and the unconscious 
innocence of the children present a contrast that needs no comment. 
It is a'touch that melts the heart heavy with the slow accumulation 
of guilt, as some tender memorial of lost happiness brings tears to the 
eyes of those who are petrified with inexpressible grief. 

When the father is bidden to part from them, the play ends, and the 
chorus utters its last injunction to call no one happy until his death. 




BLINDING OF GEDIPUS. 



This tragedy certainly enforces the lesson of the vicissitudes of life, 
and, as it stands, it is a worthy memorial of the perfection of the Greek 
tragic art. Not only is the story impressive, but the way in which the 
incidents are accumulated and the interest is advanced from point to 
point is most noteworthy. The action does not move in one steady 
course, like the slow rising of a tide which gradually submerges the 
characters, but they are rather overwhelmed by successive waves. 
After GEdipus is charged with the murder of Laius, alarm fills the 
soul, but the worst dread of the fate the oracle foretells is dispelled for 
a moment by hearing of the death of Polybus ; his fear of committing 
incest with his mother is temporarily removed by learning that he is 
not the son of Merope ; only by successive steps does the truth appear, 
and it is in these gradations that we see the successive complications 
of the plot and their close interweaving. 

That the ancients regarded the play as a masterpiece of skill is 
evident from Aristotle's many references to it as a model play, and 
the admiration of moderns is no less genuine. When it was brought 



MODERN REPRESENTATIONS OE THE GREEK PLAYS. 331 

out is uncertain, but it was apparently after the Antigone and before 
the CEdipus at Colonus, that is to say, between 439 and 412 B.C. 

Those who saw this play acted at Harvard College in the spring 
of 1 88 1, or those who have seen any of the not infrequent represen- 
tations of Greek plays, such as the Antigone and the Agamemnon, 
have learned what reading in the closet can scarcely teach, how won- 
derfully adapted for the stage are these pieces. Only by such means 
can one understand their vivacity and action, as well as the inaccuracy 
of the literary notion that they are cold and statuesque. Far from it ; 
they abound with life and are in no way scholastic accumulations of 
declamatory dialogue, as they have been sometimes regarded when 
spelled out from a lexicon. It is to this weariness of the dictionary 
that is in part due the artificial solemnity of the modern imitations 
of Greek plays, for the difference is very great between the freedom 
enjoyed by men who are making literary models and the heavy bonds 
worn by the men who are imitating them in cold blood. 

V. 

The CEdipus at Colonus, which had for its subject the last days of 
the unhappy king, is not the second part of a trilogy which is con- 
cluded by the Antigone. Sophocles did not present a coherent se- 
quence of plays in that form, but rather a series of wholly discon- 
nected tragedies. Moreover, there are discrepancies in the treatment 
of the legend, and varieties in the drawing of the characters, which 
would have been impossible had the interdependence of the separate 
members been designed. Thus, at the end of King CEdipus, that 
monarch moves away into exile from all human society, but in the 
play that is now before us we learn that he has dwelt for some time in 
Thebes, and is indignant with Creon and his own sons when he is sent 
into banishment. In the Antigone, again, we are told that CEdipus 
died immediately after blinding himself, and in all these plays there 
are great differences in the character of Creon, all of which diver- 
gences from a single design go to prove the separate intention of 
each of the three plays. Yet the CEdipus at Colonus was doubtless 
written with the intention of furnishing some pacifying solution to 
the stormy career of that unhappy hero who held so important a 
place in the imaginations of the Greeks ; and in the plot of this play 
we find Sophocles making use of his own invention rather than of the 
current form of the legend. Yet he had authority for the turn that he 
gave the story in a local tradition, according to which the last days of 
CEdipus were spent within the boundaries of Attica. There he was 
said to have found a refuge, and to lie buried, in return for which kind- 



332 SOPHOCLES. 

ness he became a protecting deity of that country. Action is lent to 
this meager outline by representing the king as sought for in Thebes 
by Creon and also by Polyneices, his son. Creon makes use first of 
craft and then of force ; Polyneices is a humble suppliant for the favors 
which the oracles have promised shall attend his father's presence. 
Creon, indeed, goes so far as to have Antigone and Ismene seized to be 
carried away from the helpless old man, but Theseus of Athens is at 
hand and puts a stop to such frowardness. The play gives even in 
this form but a small chance for dramatic action, which, moreover, is 
rendered inappropriate by the hero's age and condition, so that the 
whole interest centers in the art with which the comparatively placid 
story unfolds itself. 

The play is said to have been one of the last that Sophocles wrote, 
and the general impression that the reader receives from it corrobo- 
rates this view ; the languor that pervades it, the general compre- 
hension of old age, distinguish it from the more vivid and glowing 
pictures of life with which his other work is filled. Tradition says, 
too, as has been remarked above, that the author recited one of the 
choruses in disproof of the charge of senility, but, like all traditions, 
this one has suffered from the onslaughts of critics who have torn it 
to tatters, but its picturesqueness survives its certainty. 

The play presents another interesting side in the comparison that 
it suggests with the Eumenides of ^Eschylus, and in the contrast that 
it presents to the austerer treatment of the earlier poet. The play of 
Sophocles knows nothing of the terrible side of the furies ; their shrine 
is a holy place which CEdipus unconsciously enters without intention 
of desecration, and they are at once reconciled by his offerings. The 
divine favor immediately follows these religious rites, and he is con- 
soled by recalling the oracle that in this place he should die. There 
is no moment of doubt, no prolonged conflict, as in the trial scene of 
the Eumenides ; every thing moves uninterruptedly to the solemn 
death of CEdipus, at last pardoned and at peace. Even the tears of 
his two daughters are checked by Theseus, who says : 

" Over those 
For whom the night of death as blessing comes, 
We may not mourn. Such grief the gods chastise." 

It is, too, in the infinite grace of Sophocles when he celebrates the 
culture, justice, and moderation of Athens that we notice the differ- 
ence between him and ^Eschylus, who made full use of his oppor- 
tunity to terrify the spectators with ghastly scenes. Sophocles, on 
the other hand, lets solemn pathos and religious awe take the place of 
complete terror. We see another change in the dawnings of the mel- 




a 3 



£ ^ 



334 SOPHOCLES. 

ancholy that accompanies every period of ripe culture, as in these 
lines: 

" O son of JEgeus, unto gods alone 
Nor age can come, nor destined hour of death. 
All else the almighty Ruler, Time, sweeps on. 
Earth's strength shall wither, wither strength of limb, 
And trust decays, and mistrust grows apace ; 
And the same spirit lasts not among them 
That once were friends, nor joineth state with state. 
To these at once, to those in after years, 
Sweet things grow bitter, then turn sweet again. 
And what if now at Thebes all things run smooth 
And well toward thee, Time, in myriad change, 
A myriad nights and days brings forth ; and thus 
In these, for some slight cause, they yet may spurn 
In battle, all their pledge of faithfulness." 

This passage, by the way, it is plausibly supposed, contains a refer- 
ence to the political relations between Athens and Thebes at the be- 
ginning of the Peloponnesian war. But besides this possible historical 
value, it contains very distinctly the mark of the period as an indi- 
cation of the breaking away of the confidence and buoyancy that 
found expression in ^Eschylus. The Peloponnesian war itself is but 
the outward sign of the same change. 

The allusions to Athens and Colonus, the poet's birthplace, have 
a wonderful charm, as these lines, which Sophocles is said to have 
recited in disproof of the charge of mental decay, will show : 

STROPH. I. 

CHOR. Of all the land far famed for goodly steeds, 
Thou com'st, O stranger, to the noblest spot, 
Colonos, glistening bright, 
Where evermore, in thickets freshly green, 
The clear-voiced nightingale 
Still haunts, and pours her song, 
By purpling ivy hid, 

And the thick leafage sacred to the God, 
With all its myriad fruits, 
By mortal's foot untouched, 
By sun's hot ray unscathed, 
Sheltered from every blast ; 
There wanders Dionysos evermore, 
In full, wild revelry, 
And waits upon the nymphs who nursed his youth. 

ANTISTROPH. I. 

And there, beneath the gentle dews of heaven, 

The fair narcissus with its clustered bells 

Blooms ever, day by day, 

Of old the wreath of mightiest Goddesses; 

And crocus golden-eyed ; 

And still unslumbering flow 



SOPHOCLES' PRAISE OF COLONUS. 335 

Kephisos' wandering streams ; 

They fail not from their spring, but evermore, 

Swift-rushing into birth, 

Over the plain they sweep, 

The land of broad, full breast, 

With clear and stainless wave ; 

Nor do the Muses in their minstrel choirs, 

Hold it in slight esteem, 

Nor Aphrodite with her golden reins. 

STROPH. II. 

And in it grows a marvel such as ne'er 

On Asia's soil I heard, 

Nor the great Dorian isle from Pelops named, 

A plant self-sown, that knows 

No touch of withering age, 

Terror of hostile swords, 

Which here on this our ground 

Its high perfection gains, 

The gray-green foliage of the olive-tree, 

Rearing a goodly race : 

And nevermore shall man, 

Or young, or bowed with years, 

Give forth the fierce command, 

And lay it low in dust. 

For lo ! The eye of Zeus, 

Zeus of our olive groves, 

That sees eternally, 

Casteth its glance thereon, 

And she, Athena, with the clear, gray eyes. 

ANTISTROPH. II. 

And yet another praise is mine to sing, 
Gift of the mighty God 
To this our city, mother of us all, 
Her greatest, noblest boast, 
Famed for her goodly steeds, 
Famed for her bounding colts, 
Famed for her sparkling sea. 
Poseidon, son of Kronos, Lord and King, 
To thee this boast we owe, 
For first in these our streets 
Thou to the untamed horse 
Did'st use the conquering bit : 
And here the well-shaped oar, 
By skilled hands deftly plied, 
Still leapeth through the sea, 
Following in wondrous guise, 
The fair Nereids with their hundred feet. 
AXTIG. O land, thus blessed with praises that excel, 
'Tis now thy task to prove these glories true. 

Elsewhere we find a chorus of marked beauty- : 

He who seeks length of life, 
Slighting the middle path, 
Shall seem, to me at least, 



33 6 SOPHOCLES. 

As brooding o'er vain dreams. 

Still the long days have brought 

Griefs near, and nearer yet. 

And joys — thou canst not see 

One trace of what they were ; 

When a man passeth on 
To length of days beyond the rightful bourne ; 
But lo, the helper that comes to all, 
When doom of Hades looms upon his sight, 

The bridegroom's joy all gone, 

The lyre all silent now, 

The choral music hushed, 

Death comes at last. 

Happiest beyond compare 

Never to taste of life ; 

Happiest in order next, 

Being born, with quickest speed 

Thither again to turn 

From whence we came. 

When youth hath passed away, 

With all its follies light, 

What sorrow is not there ? 
What trouble then is absent from our lot ? 
Murders, strifes, wars, and wrath, and jealousy, 
And, closing life's long course, the last and worst, 

An age of weak caprice, 

Friendless, and hard of speech, 

When, met in union strange, 

Dwell ills on ills. 

And here this woe-worn one 
(Not I alone) is found ; 
As some far northern shore, 
Smitten by ceaseless waves, 
Is lashed by every wind ; 
So ever-haunting woes, 
Surging in billows fierce, 
Lash him from crown to base ; 
Some from the westering sun, 
Some from the eastern dawn, 
These from the noontide south, 
Those from the midnight of Rhiparaean hills. 



VI. 

In the Ajax of Sophocles we have what appears to be an early work of 
that writer, and one taken from the legendary history of the Trojan war. 
Already ^Eschylus had drawn from Homer and the other later cyclic 
poets ;and Sophocles also, in plays that have been lost, showed a distinct 
preference for these authorities ; nearly a quarter of his whole work 
was taken from the Trojan myths, Odysseus being the personage who 
most frequently figured either as a hero or in a secondary part. This 
is only natural when we consider the distinct complexity of the char- 



CONTENTION FOR ACHILLES' ARMOR. 



337 



acter of Odysseus, which would especially attract the student of psy- 
chology. That hero has what may be called modern traits, especially 
in contrast with the simpler incarnations of a single quality that made 
up the personages most commonly found in the epics. Odysseus 
appears, as will be seen, in this play. It opens with the goddess 




CONTENTION OF AJAX AND ODYSSEUS BEFORE AGAMEMNON FOR THE ARMS OF ACHILLES. 
{Sarcophagus relief from Ostia.) 

Athene addressing him about the madness of Ajax. Ajax was a 
mighty warrior among the Greeks fighting against Troy, and in his 
pride he had offended Pallas Athene, so that when Achilles died and 
it was announced that his armor should be given to the best and 
bravest of the army, Ajax claimed it, on the ground that he had res- 
cued from wrong the corpse of Achilles ; but Athene willed that it 
should be given not to him but to her favorite Odysseus. Aias in 
his wrath sought to slay the Atreidae, and would have succeeded had 
not Athene deceived him and let him wreak his anger against the 
flocks and herds. 

The play begins with Athene telling Odysseus of the way in which 
Ajax was deceived, and this she does, as a critic has observed, with a 
coldness and scorn that resembles the hard smile with which that 
deity was represented in Achaian art. She wishes Odysseus to see 
the hero in his madness, but his prudence makes him oppose this 



33 s SOPHOCLES. 

plan. Yet Ajax comes forth from his tent and foretells the punish- 
ment he shall inflict on the beasts that he mistakes for the hated 
commanders. Athene points the moral, namely, the danger of disre- 
spect to the gods. 

" Do thou, then, seeing this, refrain thy tongue 
From any lofty speech against the gods, 
Nor boast thyself, though thou excel in strength 
Or weight of stored-up wealth. All human things 
A day lays low, a day lifts up again ; 
But still the gods love those of ordered soul, 
And hate the evil." 

These are her last words, and then the stage is left to human beings, 
who were the more especial objects of dramatic interest in the works 
of the later writers. The action of the play is swift : Ajax, on discov- 
ering all that he had been led to, partly by self-will, partly by the lures 
of the goddess, is overcome with remorse and determines to kill him- 
self. This he accomplishes in spite of the pathetic entreaties of his 
wife, and his love for his infant son. After his death, Agamemnon 
and Menelaus, still angry, denounce the dead hero and advise that the 
body be allowed no funeral rites. Odysseus intervenes and opposes 
successfully this harshness. 

This prolongation of the interest after the death of the hero, which 
in modern literature is a conclusion as absolute as it is in law, or as a 
wedding in a novel, was something more readily understood by the 
ancients than it is by us. The Athenians, who had recently condemned 
ten generals to death for neglecting to perform funeral rites over the 
bodies of slain soldiers, could easily comprehend, what indeed the 
Antigone closely shows, the importance of these ceremonies. Yet 
even with all possible allowance made for divergence of religious feel- 
ing, there is no doubt that it is in the scenes between Ajax and 
Tecmessa his wife, and when Ajax bids farewell to his son, and again 
to the world, that the highest interest of the play is to be found. By 
the side of the dignity and emotion that prevail here, the noisy in- 
sults that the Greek leaders utter over a corpse are trivial and painful. 
It is indeed the part that is really fine that carries the rest. 

In other words, what characterizes the play as an expression of the 
difference between Sophocles and ^Eschylus is the growth of indivi- 
duality in the persons represented, and, in addition to this, the frequent 
reference to the altered conditions of Athenian life, which is beginning 
to fall under the judgment and condemnation of the calm-eyed poet. 
" The tragic spirit," it has been said, " is the offspring of the conscience 
of a people," * and here we find the conscience of the people, facing 

* Vernon Lee's " Euphorion," i., 106. 



ATHENIAN LIFE IN THE TRAGEDIES. 339 

the current political problems of the day, vividly foreseeing its perils, 
while the attempt is made to overcome them by preaching and exam- 
ple. Throughout its brief but glorious existence, Greek tragedy was 
full of the reflections that contemporary events cast upon it. What 
in ^Eschylus was solemn joy, awe, and serious exaltation, became a 
calm vision of high wisdom in Sophocles, who holds the mean between 
his illustrious predecessor and Euripides, who, as we shall see, was torn 
by a host of distracting emotions. 

Here are some extracts to illustrate the noteworthy sanity of 
Sophocles ; some emphasizing his keen eye for character, and the later 
ones his political wisdom : 

For very shame 

Leave not thy father in his sad old age ; 
For shame leave not thy mother, feeble grown 
With many years, who ofttimes prays the Gods 
That thou may'st live and to thy home return ; 
Pity, O king, thy boy, and think if he, 
Deprived of childhood's nurture, live bereaved, 
Beneath unfriendly guardians, what sore grief 
Thou, in thy death, dost give to him and me ; 
For I have nothing now on earth save thee 
To which to look ; for thou hast swept away 
My country with thy spear, and other fate 
Has taken both my mother and my sire 
To dwell, as dead, in Hades. What to me 
Were country in thy stead, or what were wealth ? 
For I in thee find all deliverance. 
Yea, think of me too. Still the good man feels, 
Or ought to feel, the memory of delight ; 
For gracious favors still do favor win ; 
But if a man forget the good received, 
His soul no more wears stamp of gentle birth. 
* * * * * 

AlAS. Lift him, then, lift him here. He will not shrink, 
Beholding all this slaughter newly wrought, 
If he be rightly named his father's son : 
But we to these his father's savage ways 
Must break him in, and make him like in soul. 
O boy, may'st thou be happier than thy sire, 
In all things else be like him. And not bad 
Would'st thou be then. And yet thy lot e'en now 
Doth move my envy, that thou feelest nought 
Of all these evils. Sweetest life is found 
In those unconscious years ere yet thou know 
Or joy or sorrow. When thou com'st to this, 
Then thou must show thy breeding to thy foes, 
What son of what a father ; but till then, 
In gentle breezes grow, and rear thy life 
A joy to this thy mother. And I know 
That none of all the Achaean host will dare 
Insult thee with foul scorn, though I be gone ; 
Such a stout guardian will I leave for thee 
In Teucros, still unsparing for thy need, 
Though now far off he hunts our enemies. 



34-0 SOPHOCLES. 

And ye, who bear the shield, my sailor band, 

On you in common this request 1 lay ; 

Give him this message from me, home to take 

This boy, and show him there to Telamon, 

And to my mother, Eribcea named, 

That he may feed their age for evermore, 

[Till they too enter the abode of Death ;] 

And these my arms no umpires — no, nor yet 

That plague of mine — shall to Achasans give ; 

But thou, my son, Eurysakes, be true 

To that thy name, and holding by the belt 

Well wrought, bear thou the sevenfold shield unhurt 

But all my other arms with me shall lie 

Entombed. And now, take thou this boy indoors 

And close the tent, and shed no wailing tears 

Here in the front. A woman still must weep. 

Close up the opening quickly ; skillful leech 

Mutters no spell o'er sore that needs the knife. 



So for the future we shall know to yield 

Our will to God's, shall learn to reverence 

The Atreidas even. They our rulers are, 

And we must yield. Why not ? The strongest things 

That fright the soul still yield to sovereignty. 

Winters with all their snow-drifts still withdraw 

For summer with its fruits ; and night's dark orb 

Moves on, that day may kindle up its fires, 

Day with its chariot drawn by whitest steeds ; 

And blast of dreadest winds will lull to rest 

Thy groaning ocean ; and all-conquering sleep 

Now binds, now frees, and does not hold for aye 

Whom once it seized. And shall not we too learn 

Our lesson of true wisdom ? I, indeed, 

Have learnt but now that we should hate a foe 

Only so far as one that yet may love, 

And to a friend just so much help I'll give 

As unto one that will not always stay ; 

For with most men is friendship's haven found 

Most treacherous refuge. 



Never in a state 
Can laws be well administered when dread 
Has ceased to act, nor can an armed host 
Be rightly ruled, if no defence of fear 
And awe be present. But a man should think, 
Though sturdy in his frame, he yet may fall 
By some small chance of ill. And know this well, 
That he who has both fear and reverence 
Has also safety. But where men are free 
To riot proudly, and do all their will, 
That state, be sure, with steady-blowing gale, 
Is driving to destruction, and will fall. 



With such a mood as this 
There can be no establishment of law, 
If we shall cast off those whose right prevails, 
And lead the hindmost to the foremost rank. 



THE PLAY OF PHIL OCTETE S— OD \ 'SSE I 'S. 



341 



Nay, we must check these things. The safest men 
Are not the stout, broad-shouldered, brawny ones, 
But still wise thinkers everywhere prevail ; 
And oxen, broad of back, by smallest scourge 
Are, spite of all, driven forward in the way ; 
And that sure spell, I see, will come ere long 
On thee, unless thou somehow wisdom gain, 
Who, when thy lord is gone, a powerless shade, 
Art bold, with'wanton insolence of speech. 



VII. 

In the Philoctetes we find Odysseus again, for, it must be remem- 
bered, the mythological history was of but moderate compass, so that 
poets and artists were continually representing according to their re- 
spective arts the same heroes and the same stories. yEschylus and 
Euripides treated the subject of this play ; their rendering has not 
come down to us, but such scanty accounts of their work as have 




PHILOCTETES IX LEMXOS. 



reached us indicate with some distinctness the characteristic differences 
of the three men. Let us first examine the play of Sophocles. Accord- 
ing to the myth, Philoctetes was one of the wooers of Helen, who 
being bound by an oath to defend her in case of any harm, joined the 
army that went out against Troy. On landing at Chryse, he rashly 



342 



SOPHOCLES. 



trod on sacred ground and was bitten on the foot by a snake ; this 
wound became so noisome and the outcries of Philoctetes so distracting, 
that he was sent under care of Odysseus to Lemnos, and there he was 
left, alone and untended. Meanwhile the siege of Troy dragged on for 
ten years. Hector, Achilles, and Ajax all died, but the city was not 
taken. Helenus, a son of Priam, was captured ; he had the gift of 
prophecy and declared that Troy would fall only before a son of Achil- 
les, with the bow of Heracles. This bow had been given by Heracles 




HERACLES. 



to Philoctetes, consequently the Greeks sent to Skyros for Neoptole- 
mus, the son of Achilles, and arranged that he and Odysseus should 
secure the bow from Philoctetes. The play opens with their landing 
at Lemnos. Odysseus reminds Neoptolemus of the object of their 
voyage and of the extreme need of securing the bow and arrows, 
urging the employment of deceit, if necessary, for the attainment of 
their object. He can not himself encounter Philoctetes because of 
what he had done in banishing that hero, but his guileful spirit 
directs the plot. At once Neoptolemus comes upon traces of the 



NEOPTOLEMUS AXD PHILOCTETES. 343 

wretched, lonely man, and the action begins without delay. Neop- 
tolemus objects to the use of guile, 

•• Dost thou not count it base to utter lies ? " 
he asks — 

•• Not so, when falsehood brings deliverance," 

answers Odysseus, and the discussion goes on between the well-mean, 
ing boy and the wily master of guile, until Neoptolemus is wholly con- 
vinced by the ingenuity of his older companion. Already the art of 
Sophocles has brought the scene down to the conditions of human 
life. Neoptolemus has found in the cave no other comforts than " some 
leaves pressed down as for some dweller's use," and " a simple cup of 
wood, the common work of some poor craftsman, and this tinder 
stuff," together with some cast-off bandages for his foot. When Phii- 
octetes appears, as he does presently, his coming is heralded by his 
groans, but his first words are the bubbling forth of eager curiosity : 

" Who are ye that have come to this our shore, 
And by what chance ? for neither is it safe 
To anchor in, nor yet inhabited. 
What may I guess your country and your race ? 
Your outward guise and dress of Hellas speak, 
To me most dear, and yet I fain would hear 
Your speech ; and draw not back from me in dread, 
As fearing this my wild and savage look, 
But pity one unhappy, left alone, 
Thus helpless, friendless, worn with many ills. 
Speak, if it be ye come to me as friends." 

And when Neoptolemus answers that they are from Hellas, he 

goes on : 

•• O dear-loved sound ! Ah me ! what joy it is 
After long years to hear a voice like thine ! 

Obviously Philoctetes is not in a suspicious mood, and when he de- 
scribes his suffering's at the hands of the Greeks and since, and his 
grounds for wrath with Odysseus, he is ready to believe the smooth 
invention of Neoptolemus, who represents himself as returning home- 
ward after being deceived by the same dishonest man. This similarity 
in their condition arouses the sympathy of the credulous Philoctetes. 
who asks Neoptolemus not to abandon him, but to carry him away 
from the island: 

•• Abandoned to these evils which thou see'st, 

But think of me as thrown on you by chance. 
Right well I know how noisome such a freight ; 
Yet still do thou endure it. Noble souls 
Still find the base is hateful, and the good 
Is full of glcr 



344 SOPHOCLES. 

And he goes on to entreat the kind services of Neoptolemus with 
the most complete pathos and passion. The picture that he draws 
of his loneliness and total abandonment is to the last degree 
touching : 

Phil. By thy dear sire and mother, I, my son, 
Implore thee as a suppliant, by all else 
To me most dear, thus lonely leave me not, 
Abandoned to these evils which thou see'st, 
With which thou hearest that I still abide ; 
But think of me as thrown on you by chance. 
Right well I know how noisome such a freight ; 
Yet still do thou endure it. Noble souls 
Still find the base is hateful, and the good 
Is full of glory. And for thee, my son, 
Leaving me here comes shame that is not good ; 
But doing what I ask thee thou shalt have 
Thy meed of greatest honor, should I reach 
Alive and well the shore of (Eta's land. 
Come, come ! The trouble lasts not one whole day : 
Take heart ; receive me ; put me where thou wilt, 
In hold, or stern, or stem, where least of all 
I should molest my fellow-passengers. 
Ah, by great Zeus, the suppliant's God, consent ; 
I pray thee, hearken. On my knees I beg, 
Lame though I be and powerless in my limbs. 
Nay, leave me not thus desolate, away 
From every human footstep. Bring me safe, 
Or to my home, or where Chalkodon holds 
His seat in fair Eubcea : thence the sail 
To (Eta and the ridge of Trachis steep, 
And fair Spercheios is not far for me, 
That thou may'st show me to my father dear, 
Of whom long since I've feared that he perchance 
Has passed away. For many messages 
I sent to him by those who hither came, 
Yea, suppliant prayers that he would hither send, 
Himself, to fetch me home. But either he 
Is dead, or else, as happens oft with men 
Who errands take, they holding me, 'twould seem, 
In slight account, pushed on their homeward voyage. 
But now, for here I come to thee as one 
At once my escort and my messenger, 
Be thou my helper, my deliverer thou, 
Seeing all things full of fear and perilous chance, 
Or to fare well, or fall in evil case ; 
And one that's free from sorrow should look out 
For coming dangers, and, when most at ease, 
Should then keep wariest watch upon his life, 
Lest unawares he perish utterly. 

The chorus, too, add their supplications, and Neoptolemus appears 
to accede, really meaning, however, to carry Philoctetes to Troy. The 
deceived hero turns to bid farewell to the place where he lived so 
long, when an attendant, disguised as a trader, makes his appearance, 
and carries the deception still further by pretending that Odysseus is 



THE BOW OF PHILOCTETES. 345 

coming to seize him and to carry him by force, if necessary, to fulfill 
the oracle. Philoctetes falls into the trap and prepares to get the 
herb with which he allays the pain in his foot, and he promises to 
Neoptolemus the bow and arrows which were so much desired. When 
the two are ready to leave, Philoctetes is seized with an attack of pain 
in his wounded foot and places his weapons in the hands of his young 
companion. His agony is great until he throws himself on the ground 
and falls asleep, while is chanted a beautiful song of the chorus : 

" Come, blowing softly, Sleep, that know'st not pain, 

Sleep, ignorant of grief, 
Come softly, surely, kingly Sleep, and bless ; 

Keep still before his eyes 
The band of light which lies upon them now. 

Come, come, thou healing one. 

$fi ifC Jfc •%. 5}C 

Speak gently, O my son, speak gently now 

With 'bated breath, speak low. 
To all whom pain and sickness make their own, 

Sleep is but sleepless still." 

But when he awakens from his swoon it is to new terrors. Neop- 
tolemus, after brief indecision, yields to his better nature, and, con- 
fessing his inability to carry the deceit further, exposes the plot to 
Philoctetes : 

" Thou must to Troi'a sail, 
To those Atreidas and the Argive host." 

Philoctetes demands his bow, which Neoptolemus refuses to sur- 
render ; this calls forth a tremendous outburst of denunciation and 
entreaty : 

" By all the Gods 

Thy fathers worshipped, rob me not of life. 

Ah, wretched me ! He does not answer me, 

But looks away as one who will not yield. 

O creeks ! O cliffs out-jutting in the deep ! 

O all ye haunts of beasts that roam the hills, 

O rocks that go sheer clown, to you I wail, 

(None other do I know to whom to speak)." 

Neoptolemus wavers ; but while he is still undecided Odysseus ap- 
pears and orders Philoctetes to depart ; he, however, rushes to the cliff 
to fling himself off it, but the sailors seize him and bind his hands ; in 
despair he bewails his misfortunes, praying that enemies may suffer 
like ills. After he has withdrawn to his cavern, Neoptolemus, who has 
reflected and repented, then hastens back to return the bow to its 
owner, in spite of the remonstrances and threats of Odysseus. Philoc- 
tetes, when the bow is in his hands, raises it to shoot Ody r sseus, who 
steals away. Neoptolemus once more beseeches the old hero to consent 



34 6 SOPHOCLES. 

to go to Troy, where he promises him his foot shall be healed. Philoc- 
tetes, however, insists on being taken home, and Neoptolemus consents, 
but the final solution is brought about by the appearance of Heracles, 
whose orders to go to Troy convince the stubborn Philoctetes. 

In this play more than in any we have yet examined we find the 
personal elements most strongly brought out ; the three heroes are 
three different men, and the conflict that takes place between them is 
brought down from that lofty ether, where, if one could say it respect- 
fully, commonplaces exercise an undue influence, to this world, where 
the contradictions of human characters appear in all their complexity 
and vigor. The stubbornness of Philoctetes is satisfactorily explained 
by the bitterness of his experience, and the very simplicity of his 
character intensifies the keenness of his emotions and the openness of 
their expression. Not until Shakspere do we find in the drama equal 
fervor and earnestness. Neoptolemus, again, is at first imposed upon 
by the superior intelligence of the older and astuter Odysseus, but his 
baleful decision to lend himself to a gross wrong melts with shame 
for the injustice of his conduct. It does not break away suddenly 
from a notion that in a hero's mind right prevails with instantaneous 
force ; the change is gradual and hence natural. Odysseus, on the 
other hand, is the legendary man of craft, about whom gathered a 
number of stories that celebrated the employment of wiles. It is im- 
possible to believe that these devices of his were regarded as anything 
but amusing; that Sophocles could state the right as it is uttered 
by Neoptolemus without knowing, as a mere matter of intellectual per- 
ception, the unsoundness of the contrary fault is inconceivable. But 
that Odysseus was a privileged deviser of ingenious schemes who was 
not to be too severely judged may be readily believed. Even here he 
is not brought into great prominence; the interest that one feels lies 
between Neoptolemus and Philoctetes. It is the tragic contrast of 
their characters that makes this marvellous play full of interest and 
beauty, and full of that quality of human interest which had in time 
taken possession of the Greek drama. The appearance of the god 
Heracles merely terminates the play according to the legend ; in fact, 
honor was victorious in the willingness of Neoptolemus to take Philoc- 
tetes to his home. 

This must have been very nearly the last work of Sophocles, for it was 
brought out in 409, and it was in 405 that the poet died. One mark of 
its lateness is its modernness of feeling and plot, and the way in which 
the real tragic conflict is placed within the breast of Neoptolemus. 
These qualities mark the extreme limit to which Sophocles brought 
the development of Greek tragedy. 



THE MAIDENS OE TRACHIS. 347 



VIII, 



In the only one remaining of his plays, the Maidens of Trachis, we 
have a less valuable specimen of his work. The uncertainty of the 
date at which it was brought out, and its comparative inferiority have 
become the pretext for discussions as violent as various. Some have 
held that it is so poor that Sophocles could not have written it, but 
that it was composed by Iophon, the poet's son, or some such inferior 
author. This assertion, which rests on no solid foundation, is denied 
by others, who maintain that it is undeniably the work of Sophocles ; 
but a difference of opinion again arises as to whether its faults are those 
of early or of late years. It certainly lacks the qualities that are dis- 
cernible in the plays that are known to have been written towards the 
end of the poet's life, and the languor and timidity of its construction 
bear a strong likeness to the fumbling of a beginner. A certain ease 
of workmanship is tolerably sure to survive in old age, even when other 
qualities have faded away, as we see in the later works of Goethe and 
Corneille. This play opens with Deianeira lamenting the absence of 
her husband, Heracles, who is atoning for a homicide, by command of 
Zeus, through a year's service in the employment of Omphale in 
Lydia. At the suggestion of a nurse, Deianeira sends out Hyllos, her 
son, to get news of his father. Then the chorus appear praying for 
tidings of the absent Heracles. Deianeira's grief and loneliness are 
clearly marked in her address to the chorus, wherein she envies 
their immunity from the cares of married life. A messenger enters, 
in advance of Lichas the herald, with the joyful tidings that Heracles 
is victorious, for which his wife is duly grateful, and soon the herald 
appears with Iole and a group of captive women whom Heracles 
had sent to her. She is filled with pity for their sad lot, and is espe- 
cially interested in Iole, whose beauty attracts her, and she questions 
her about her family. Iole, however, makes no answer, and this de- 
vice of eloquent silence is one that ^Eschylus often used, as in the 
beginning of the Prometheus, and in the protracted speechlessness of 
Atossa in the Persians. Meanwhile Deianeira expresses the most 
tender sympathy for the poor captive. When they are gone in, the 
messenger stops Deianeira and tells her that Iole is loved by Heracles, 
and that it was in order to gain her that he captured her city. When 
Lichas returns, she questions him closely and finds this evil news con- 
firmed. Her grief at these disclosures is most delicately represented. 
It is not the modern romantic mixture of insulted dignity and con- 
temptuous scorn, but rather a passive regret for an acknowledged 
weakness that inspires her. To bring back her husband's love, she 




HERACLES AND OMPHALE. 
{Pompeiia n Wall-pa inti7ig. ) 



DEIAXEIRA AXD HERACLES. 349 

determines to apply the blood of a Centaur to a robe to be sent to her 
husband, which she had been told would work as a love-charm, and 
the chorus approve of her plan. In accordance therewith she entrusts 
the garment to Nessus to carry to Heracles, but no sooner is he gone 
out of reach than she discovers the baleful effect the blood had had 
on some wool, which it wholly destroyed, and the whole horror of her 
plan becomes clear to her. Hyllos returns with the news that she has 
in fact slain Heracles in just that way, and he prays that she may re- 
ceive justice for her evil deeds. In her remorse she runs from the 
stage, and the sad scene of her death at her own hands is described 
by an attendant. The conclusion of the play is of a mythological 
sort, and lies outside of the modern view of the drama. Heracles is 
brought in on a couch, suffering fearful torments and lamenting his 
sudden fate : 

" Leave me to sleep, yes, leave me, wretched one; 

Leave me to sleep my sleep. 

Where dost thou touch me ? Where move ? 

Death thou wilt bring ; yea, bring death. 

What awhile knew repose 

Now thou dost stir again ; 

It grasps me, creeping still. 
Where are ye, of all men that live on the earth most ungrateful ? 
For whom I of old, in all forests and seas, slaying monsters, 
Wore out my life ; and now, when I lie sore smitten before you, 
Not one of you all will bring the tire or the sword that will help me." 

When he asks to see Deianeira, the whole story is recounted to him, 
and he turns from that to utter new prophecies. He orders his funeral 
in (Eta, where his body is to be burned, and Hyllos reluctantly promises 
to carry out his father's wishes, to burn him there, and then to marry 
Iole. Heracles then leaves the stage to meet his speedy end. 

Even this arid description will make it clear that the play lacks the 
unity of most of the Greek plays ; not only is the interest divided be- 
tween Deianeira and Heracles, but, more than this, the final scenes 
have to us moderns the air of incoherent addition. The domestic 
tragedy is terminated with a legendary ending. If this was an early 
play, it may be that Sophocles felt that in following his bent towards 
developing the human interest in his plays, he had not learned the diffi- 
cult art of blending it with the imperative mythological setting, and 
even in the first part the attempt to combine the interests of Heracles 
and his wife causes rather division than union. Although the play 
contains many passages of great beauty, it is at times, especially at 
the beginning, not free from an unaccustomed heaviness and slowness 
of movement. The art of narration which fills so important a part 
in the play is not yet brought into proper relation with the necessity 









mvM\ 

ilf 

iff 




HERACLES AND NESSUS. 
( fl? ;«/,? z ia n Wa U-pa inting . ) 



HUMAN LIFE IN SOPHOCLES AND SHAKSPERE. 35 1 

of dramatic movement. The complexity of Sophocles is not yet the 
perfect master of its instrument ; that quality, if this was in fact an 
early work, was only acquired later. 

In reviewing the total impression of what has come down to us from 
the hands of Sophocles, what strikes us is the calmness and self-posses- 
sion of his art, a quality that is more readily perceived than described, 
for the nearer an object comes to perfect beauty the more difficult it 
is to define it except with that one word. When it has marked qual- 
ities that give one side more prominence than another, we are no longer 
dumb. In English literature, for example, Milton has been described 
with exactness, whereas countless volumes have struggled with Shak- 
spere, and his work, at its best, yet defies the most industrious com- 
mentators to say just wherein its merit lies. In the same way the 
rounded perfection of Sophocles baffles any one who tries his hand 
at conveying a full impression of his many attractive qualities. Yet 
the field in which he worked may be stated, even if the degree of his 
merit can only be admired and not conveyed by analysis. What he 
did was to bring into the vast machinery of the drama the human 
being. How well he did this only his plays can show, but even in 
the pallor of translation his truthfulness and earnestness appear, and, 
above all, the dignity and seriousness of his work. This dignity is 
not an artificial quality built up on conventionality and morbidly fear- 
ful of indecorum, which partly defines the French tragedy as it appears 
to foreigners. There is none of the modern dread of simplicity, the 
literary gentility, as we may call it, which is afraid of simple phrases 
and compels ordinary words and phrases to be made over into fine lang- 
uage, so that birds shall be " the feathered songsters," and the sky " th' 
ethereal vault." Nor does an artificial decorum chill the action ; the 
most unreal of the Greek heroes is ready to break forth into violence. 
In the King CEdipus — as those who have seen it acted will remem- 
ber — the hero moves and acts as well as suffers, with all the vivacity 
of a Shaksperian character. The resemblance to Shakspere lies deep. 
The English poet, living when he did, was the mouthpiece of two con- 
tradictory movements, that of the Renaissance and that of mediaeval- 
ism, and these two currents are as clearly visible in his plays as are 
two mingling rivers at their point of junction. Yet in Sophocles we see 
the same qualities, less vividly contrasted, though potentially existing 
in the absence of conventionality and the readiness with which attend- 
ants and such minor characters as the guard in Antigone are repre- 
sented. The more important resemblance between them lies in that 
they both felt the greatness of human life, and both sympathized as 
well as perceived and described. The greater wealth of modern times 
is reflected in the later poet, but the seriousness is common to both. 



CHAPTER IV.— EURIPIDES. 

I. — The Changes in Greek Literature and in the Body Politic. — An Illustrative Quota- 
tion from Mr. J. A. Symonds. II. — The Life of Euripides, and an Attempt to 
Explain His Relation to His Predecessors — His Movement toward Individu- 
ality not a Personal Trait, but Part of a General Change. The Religious De- 
cadence ; Political Enfeeblement. III. — The Work of Euripides ; its Abun- 
dance — The Hecuba — The Prologue as Employed by this Writer. IV. — The 
Orestes and its Treatment. — The New Treatment of the Heroes as Human 
Beings. — The Phenician Virgins. — The Medea ; its Intensity — Extracts. V. — 
The Crowned Hippolytus. — Realism in the Treatment of the Characters. — The 
Further Change in the Importance of the Chorus. 

I. 

IN Euripides we notice that another step is taken. An excellent 
description of the change is given by Mr. J. A. Symonds in his 
" Studies of the Greek Poets " (Amer. ed., ii, 34) : " The law of im- 
evitable progression in art from the severe and animated embodiment 
of an idea to the conscious elaboration of the merely aesthetic motives 
and brilliant episodes, has hitherto been neglected by the critics and 
historians of poetry. They do not observe that the first impulse in a 
people toward creativeness is some deep and serious emotion, some 
fixed point of religious enthusiasm or national pride. To give ade- 
quate form to this taxes the energies of the first generation of artists, 
and raises their poetic faculty, by the admixture of prophetic inspira- 
tion, to the highest pitch. After the original passion for the ideas to 
be embodied in art has somewhat subsided, but before the glow and 
fire of enthusiasm has faded out, there comes a second period, when 
art is studied more for art's sake, but when the generative potency 
of the earlier poets is by no means exhausted. For a moment the 
artist at this juncture is priest, prophet, hierophant, and charmer, all 
in one. More conscious of the laws of beauty than his predecessors, 
he makes some sacrifice of the idea to meet the requirements of pure 
art ; but he never forgets that beauty by itself is insufficient to a great 
and perfect work, nor has he lost his interest in the cardinal concep- 
tions which vitalize the most majestic poetry. During the first and 
second phases which I have indicated the genius of a nation throws out 
a number of masterpieces — some of them rough-hewn and Cyclopean, 
others perfect in their combination of the strength of thought with 



THE LAW OF LITERARY DEVELOPMENT. 353 

grace and elevated beauty." In fact, the perfected work succeeds 
the earlier crudities, as would be expected and is proved by compar- 
ing Sophocles with yEschylus. To go on, however: "But the mine 
of ideas is exhausted. The national taste has been educated. Con- 
ceptions which were novel to the grandparents have become the in- 
tellectual atmosphere of the grandchildren. It is now impossible to 
return upon the past — to gild the refined gold or to paint the lily of 
the supreme poets. Their vigor may survive in their successors; but 
their inspiration has taken form forever in their poems. What, then, 
remains for the third generation of artists ? They have either to 
reproduce their models — and this is stifling to true genius — or they 
have to seek novelty at the risk of impairing the strength or the 
beauty which has become stereotyped. Less deeply interested in the 
great ideas by which they have been educated, and of which they are 
in no sense the creators, incapable of competing on the old ground 
with their elders, they are obliged to go afield for striking situations, 
to force sentiment and pathos, to subordinate the harmony of the 
whole to the melody of the parts, to sink the prophet in the poet, the 
hierophant in the charmer." 

This interesting hypothesis is further corroborated by the instances 
which Mr. Symonds brings forward from the history of the fine arts, 
as, for example, the growth of Greek sculpture, from its crude begin- 
ning, through perfect beauty in the hands of Pheidias to the somewhat 
cloying luxuriance of Praxiteles. " In architecture," he says truly, 
" the genealogy of Doric, Ionic, and Corinthian orders points to the 
same law," which he further illustrates from modern painting by point- 
ing to the relative position of Giotto, Raphael, and Correggio. In 
fact, as Mr. Symonds remarks, " this law of sequence is widely applic- 
able. It will be seen to control the history of all uninterrupted 
artistic dynasties," and we may go further and affirm that no law con- 
trols the action of the mind with regard to a certain class of objects 
without being one of universal application. In government, for 
instance, which certainly bears but slight resemblance to the fine arts, 
we may observe how inevitably the application of such a principle as 
that of civil-service reform produces first enthusiasm, then discreet 
application, which is followed by the development of the same prin- 
ciple in minute details. In physics we see the same uniform sequence, 
whereby the glow of discovery is in time succeeded by the ingenious 
utilization of the principle in common life. 

Still it is true that seldom do we have left us such marked instances 
of the law of literary development as /Eschylus, Sophocles, and 
Euripides, and just as it is hard to describe a straight line, or time, or life, 
or any of the things that we understand instinctively, while deviations 



354 EURIPIDES . 

from intelligible things can be readily defined, so it is easy to persuade 
one's self that writers who differ from a recognized standard are thereby 
detestable. ^Eschylus for centuries suffered by comparison with 
Sophocles, and now, or until very recently, it is the turn of Euripides 
to be treated with contempt instead of judicious admiration. For- 
tunately the duty of a historian is to describe, and not to lead the 
applause or the hisses. For him to do nothing but praise the great 
poets would be like a botanist cheering Bartlett pears, or, if it be 
objected that even these pears are too common, then cheering the 
century plant. In the same way, the student is more profitably 
employed in observing the respects in which Euripides resembles or 
differs from his predecessors than in deriding or simply praising his 
various qualities. 

II. 

While Euripides thus appears to belong to a much later and very 
different generation, he was a contemporary of Sophocles and often his 
competitor in theatrical contests. He was born in 480 B. C, the year 
of the battle of Salamis, and, we are told, on that island. Indeed, a 
later legend declared that he was born on the very day of that battle, 
although this statement may be an inaccuracy that arose from the 
pardonable desire of bringing the three greatest tragedians into close 
connection with the most glorious events of Athenian history. On the 
other hand, the statement, though practically immaterial to us, may be 
true, and only to be denied as probably will be denied, in the remote 
future, the undoubted fact that John Adams and Jefferson died on the 
same day, the fiftieth anniversary of the signing of the Declaration of 
Independence. Sophocles, who was about fifteen years the elder, sur- 
vived Euripides a few months, dying in 406. In correlating the plays 
of the three great tragedians, we must remember that they were sepa- 
rated by no great distance of time, the respective dates of their births 
being about 525 B.C., 495 B.C. and 480 B.C.; that ^Eschylus fought at 
Marathon, Sophocles took part in the psean for the battle of Salamis, 
and that on the day of the battle, or thereabouts, .Euripides was born. 

The accounts of the early life of Euripides are few and various. He 
appears to have been a man of considerable culture ; he had a large 
library ; mention is made of pictures that he painted ; he is said to 
have busied himself with metaphysical studies and to have been a 
friend of Socrates and of Anaxagoras. Indeed this fuller, more com- 
plex culture penetrates the whole work of Euripides ; this is penetrated 
by all the fervor and stress of the swiftly developing artistic and 
literary life of Athens. The spirit which animated ^Eschylus was 
something like that flowering of the Renaissance which we see in 



RIPENING PERIOD OP CLE PURE REPRESENTED IN EURIPIDES. 355 

Milton ; he rested on the long and complicated growth of the lyric 
poets as Milton rested on the revival of learning. Sophocles perfected 
this quality and brought it to its full fruition. When the rising tide of 
intellectual excitement had made its way into all the nooks and corners 
of men's interests, this new spirit, or, rather, this modification of the 
old spirit, inevitably found expression in literature, just as Pope's com- 




EUR1PIDES. 



pacter treatment of the couplet with its narrower but subtler thought 
succeeded Dryden's vigor, and as Tennyson's mosaic work is built up 
on Keats's broader handling of romantic verse. There is a similar 
difference between Corneille and Racine. The mere mechanical con- 
struction of the verse is a symbol as well as an expression of the deeper 
underlying change, and the plays of Euripides, especially the later 
ones, abound with examples of the influence of contemporary study 
and speculation. There is nothing from which it is so impossible for 
a man's mind, as well as his body, to escape as from the day of his 
birth, and in these plays we shall see his treatment of religious 



35 6 EURIPIDES. 

myths, his scepticism, his dialectic skill, reflecting the current life 
of his day. 

It is said that Euripides was trained for athletic sports, but in such 
a way that he conceived a great dislike for them and for those who 
practiced them. His married life appears to have been quite as 
unhappy as that of a poet should be. His second wife led him an 
unpleasant life, and one of the charges brought against him by Aris- 
tophanes was that of being a woman-hater. He certainly had a keen eye 
for the foibles of women, and doubtless his own unfortunate experience 
embittered his representation of the sex in his plays, but the charge is 
a singular one to come from the lips of Aristophanes, who denounced 
women with far more severity than did his tragic contemporary. More- 
over, it is a familiar fact that the reasons assigned by men for their 
dislike of their neighbors are often nothing but plausible pretexts to 
secure the sympathy of others, and to not properly define the real 
cause of hatred. The motives of Aristophanes are to be discussed 
later ; of Euripides it may be said that he certainly showed a fondness 
for choosing heroines who were led by passion to great excesses, but he 
is not accurately defined by being called a woman-hater. 

Like iEschylus, Euripides died away from Athens. He was not, 
however, like his great predecessor, driven away by unkind treatment. 
He left his home on the invitation of King Archelaus, of Macedonia, 
who was doing his best to raise that country to the level of the higher 
civilization of Athens, and for that purpose was summoning to his 
capital distinguished men, as Frederick of Prussia and Catherine of 
Russia in the last century, and as Hiero of Syracuse earlier, gathered 
in poets and philosophers for delight and improvement. In his stay 
at this court Euripides repaid his poet's hospitality by writing, at the 
king's request, a tragedy, Archelaus, wherein he celebrated the founder 
of the dynasty. This is, unfortunately, lost, but the fact that it was 
written is interesting, as showing, what scarcely needed proof, that a 
Greek tragedian could write a play that bore a close relation to 
existing circumstances. It was here that he died about 406 B.C., at 
Arethusa, the tradition telling us that he was attacked by dogs at 
night and that he did not recover from their wounds. 

His stay in Macedonia illustrates the widespread interest in Athenian 
work, and just as the artists of that city were summoned to other cities 
their statues were purchased by rulers who were anxious to decorate 
their lands. In the same way there arose a demand among foreigners 
for the writings of the most eminent tragedians. Greek players 
traveled abroad, as English players did at the time of Shakspere, and 
as actors of all nations do now. Euripides was called on for plays to 
be brought out in other places. His Andromache, for example, was 



POLITICAL CHANGES IX A THEXS— DEMOCRACY OF EURIPIDES. 357 

written for the stage at Argos, and this is not the only proof of the 
way in which Athenian culture was spreading over civilization. Yet it 
frequently happens that what attracts the mentally alert foreigners is 
something that but slowly makes its way in the greater social com- 
plexity of the land that produces it. Of late years the last results of 
science in the hands of Darwin, Spencer, and Huxley have found more 
unreserved following among young men in Russia — to say nothing of 
America — than in England, and while to the foreigner Euripides was 
probably the most brilliant writer in Athens, in that city he was much 
disliked. He won the first prize but five times, and in general there is 
but little doubt that the attacks of Aristophanes found as much 
approval in the hearts of the Athenians as did those against Socrates. 
This is the price that he paid for representing in literature the disin- 
tegration that was befalling life and thought in that city. 

It would be an unsatisfactory explanation of the differences between 
Euripides and his great predecessors that should ascribe these solely 
to the fact that the last of the three poets was born with an accidental 
tendency towards irreverence, which inspired his novel treatment of 
the drama. It would be equally exact to say that the inventor of the 
telephone was born with an inherent tendency towards the study of 
electricity, without taking into account the conditions and direction of 
science at his time. Even those who go further and call Euripides the 
poet of the ochlocracy or mob rule, as the later democracy is called, 
utter only part of the truth, for the decay of democracy was in fact 
but one expression of the general development of the Athenian culture 
which also manifested itself in the plays of Euripides, as in the heresies 
of Socrates and the scientific spirit of Anaxagoras. In the political 
changes of Athens one can trace only the normal result of the corrup- 
tion and aggressiveness of the citizens working the ruin of the state, 
and in these tragedies we see the poet trying to reconcile the tangled 
web of human life with some satisfactory substitute for the vanishing 
religious beliefs. The change was not in the mind of Euripides alone ; 
it was one that extended throughout society, that manifested itself in 
political experiments, distrust in the old religion, and the enfeeblement 
of the grand impulse that had animated the fine arts. Naturally his 
position won him enemies ; there are always men who believe that evil 
can be averted by doing over by rote what has once been done with 
real enthusiasm, and those who held this belief attacked him with 
severity; but he had the younger generation on his side and he became 
the favorite tragedian of later times, the one who had most authority 
among the Romans and so for a long time among the moderns. After 
all, Greece is not so remote as it sometimes appears ; there are many 
men now living, generally, it will be noticed, holding places of authority, 



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GROWTH OF SCEPTICISM— DISTRUST OF THE GREEK GODS. 359 

who regret that literature is following its own course, and earnestly 
commend, for instance, that novelists imitate Walter Scott. This is 
precisely the form of advice that was given to Euripides with the same 
success. 

We have seen how Sophocles was also carried in this direction, 
though to a far less extent. He still retained confidence in the gods 
or in something behind the gods, but this Euripides has lost. When 
the mind of the older poet was forming, Athens was enjoying its brief 
hour of triumph ; Euripides was born to later and sadder days, when 
misfortune brought doubt and despair. Scarcely any thing is more 
noteworthy in the intellectual history of Greece than the way in which 
that country outgrew the religion it had inherited from a remote past. 
That polytheism was already old and could not stand the examination 
which it was sure to receive from a most intelligent race that applied 
its reason to every question ; it was equally incompetent to endure 
scientific analysis ; nor could it atone for its pitifulness in these respects 
by inculcating a lofty and sensitive morality. The Greek gods appeared 
disreputable, while a taint began to affect their legitimacy. The ruin 
of Athens, which arose very naturally from the love of dominion that 
follows, as well as in good measure constitutes, success, further dis- 
turbed men's minds. The higher powers could be acknowledged so 
long as things went well. In the hour of defeat their impotence 
proved their untrustworthiness. There was nothing on which the 
Athenian mind could rest ; morality had no anchorage, science did 
not exist. It is this pathetic confusion that we see reflected in the 
plays of Euripides. 

III. 

Euripides rivalled his predecessors in fertility at least. He is said 
to have written ninety-two plays, of which nineteen have come down 
to us ; of these one, the Rhesus, is manifestly the work of some later 
and far inferior writer. We have, then, more of his work than of the 
two others together, but, unfortunately, it is not always the best pieces 
that have been preserved. Seven of them, however, survived on their 
merits as the most important and characteristic ones for school use. 
These are the Hecuba, Orestes, Phcenissae, Medea, Hippolytus, 
Alcestis, and Andromache. The original collection contained more, 
but these seven were finally determined to be enough, just as the first 
six books of the ^Eneid and eight orations of Cicero were not long 
ago adjudged sufficient for boys' schools. The remaining eleven plays 
have depended on chance for their preservation ; what survived mice 
and mould and fire was copied and so handed down to us. 



3 6 ° EURIPIDES. 

The Hecuba still retains its position as a text-book and is one of the 
best known of the author's plays. It was brought out apparently about 
425 B.C., and represents the misfortunes of the Trojan queen. After 
the fall of Troy a harsh fate robs her of her daughter Polyxena, who 
is sacrificed at the grave of Achilles, and her son Polydorus is murdered 
by his Thracian host, Polymestor ; she revenges herself, however, by 
slaying the children of the Thracian king and putting out his eyes. 
Certainly the tragic element is not wanting. It is not, however, 
brought out with the usual Greek art which let the development be 
an inherent part of the plot: for it is only by the accident that a slave 
goes to the shore to fetch water for the funeral rites to Polyxena that 
the body of Polydorus is found cast upon the beach by the waves. 
Yet this coincidence is not of a sort to offend us moderns, and the 
intensification of the Queen's sufferings by this new horror is made to 
develop all the fury of vengeance which stands in marked contrast 
with the earlier pathos. This pathos is prominent in delineations of 
Polyxena, whose first sorrow on hearing of the fate that awaits her is 
for her mother's bereavement. She thinks nothing of herself, and 
afterwards she preserves a lofty resignation and pride, especially when 
she asks the Greeks that she may not be bound, and compelled, after 
living a princess, to submit to the indignity of dying like a slave. 
Euripides knew full well the path to the hearts of his audience, as this 
extract will show : 



Polyx. Io, mother, my mother, what means thy cry ? 

What message strange for me bade thee stir me from my dwelling 
To startle me forth with amaze, like a fluttering bird ? 
Hecuba. My child, my child ! 

Polyx. Why address me in despair? thy first words bode me ill. 
Hecuba. Alas for the loss of thy life. 
POLYX. Speak forth, no longer hide it. 

I tremble, my mother, I tremble. 
W T hy art thou moaning? 
Hecuba. Child, O child of an ill-starred mother. 

Polyx. What message is this thou announcest ? 
Hecuba. The Argives in conclave decreed thy slaughter 
By common consent, at the tomb 
Of the son of Peleus. 
Polyx. Alas, my mother, how void of gladness 

Are these ills thou speakest ! Make it plain, 

mother, explain. 

Hecuba. My speech is a speech of evil, my child, 
And I tell thee the Argives decreed 
By their vote to dispose of thy life, woe is me ! 
Polyx. Oh, thy dread sufferings ! O my mother all wretched, 
Ill-starred in thy life. 
Dread, oh dread is the bane, 
Most hateful, most unspeakable, 
Which a god stirred against thee. 

1 thy daughter live now no longer, no more 



EXTRACTS FROM THE HECCBA. 



36x 



Wretched with thy wretchedness shall I share 
The lot of slavery 

For me like some youngling in the upland reared 
By the kine, from thy wretched arms in misery snatched 
Thou shalt be borne away. 
From thy side, by death and slaughter 
Convoyed to the dark underearth, where with the dead 
In misery I shall abide. 
Thee now, wretched mother of my life. 
I mourn for with sobs and lamentations. 
My own life, the bane and the outrage of it, 
I mourn not for that, a better fortune befalls me 
In this that I must die. 
CHORUS. Hither Odysseus' steps are hastening 

With words of new import for Hecuba. 

Odysseus. Woman, thou knowest, I think, the host's decree 
And fixed enactment, yet I will inform thee : 
The Greeks require thy child Polyxena 
For slaughter on Achilles' heaped-up tomb, 
And they dispatched me to convoy the maid ; 
Her escort I, the offering's high-priest 
And overseer will be Achilles' son. 
Hear now, what thou must do ! wait not for force 
Choose not the ways of utter strife with me, 
But heed resistless might and the calamity 
At hand ! By wisdom schooled e'en woe learns prudence. 
HECUBA. Behold ! My supreme trial here impends 

With moanings brimmed, and not unfraught with tears, 

Methinks I should have died when I was spared, 

Whom Zeus slays not but saves, that I, undone, 

The utterness of woes on woes may see. 

If though, when with their masters bond-slaves speak, 

It breeds no rank offence and hath no sting 

For them to crave full answer, then speak thou 

And to my questions let me hear response. 

ODYSSEUS. 'Tis granted, ask. I grudge thee not my leisure. 
Hecuba. Knowest thou what time thou cam'st to Ilium, 
A spy in loathsome garb, when from thine eyes 
Coursed drops of death and bathed thy very chin ? 

Odysseus. I know. More than my outmost soul these stirred. 
Hecuba. When Helen knew, when only I was told ? 

Odysseus. Well I remember what great risk I ran. 
Hecuba. When thou in prayer most humbly soughtst my knees ? 

Odysseus. Yea, when my hand died in thy raiment folds. 
Hecuba. Then thou wert my slave. Speak what saidst thou then ? 

Odysseus. Long was my plea and subtle for my life. 
Hecuba. Was't I who spared thee, I who helped thee home ? 

Odysseus. Else how should I the sun's light see to-day ? 
HECUBA. Shows not thy wicked heart in these thy courses, 
Since all my kindness done thee, though confessed 
Brings me no help but wins thy utmost harm ? 
O ingrate brood of men, who babbling strive 
For worldly honor, I'll not know you even, 
You ruin those you love, yourselves unmoved, 
If aught you speak can please the common rout. 
What wit, I ask, what wisdom found therein 
Won men to vote the slaughter of my child ? 
Did honor prompt this human sacrifice 
Over a grave, where slaughtered kine are seemlier ? 
Or. rightfully resolved to slay his slayers, 



362 EURIPIDES. 

Mayhap Achilles presses for her death ! 
But surely she has done no wrong to him. 
Let him crave Helen's slaughter on his tomb : 
She wrought his ruin. She brought him to Troy. 
Say you a captive maid must die, most choice 
And excellent in beauty — 't is not me. 
Still stands the beauteous child of Lyndarus 
Matchless, nor have we matched the harm she did you. 
So much in justice's name and rights I plead. 
Hear now what debt of gratitude thou owest 
And pay my due. Thou sayest thy hand seized mine 
And thou didst fawn once on this withered cheek. 
Even so I seize thy hand and touch thy cheek. 
That kindness I require, I cry thee mercy. 
Tear not my darling from these arms away, 
Slay not my child. Enough have died ere now. 
She is my joy, makes me forget my ills. 
My consolation, she, for much I lost, 
My home, my staff, my helpmeet, and my guide. 
Let not the strong use strength for wrong, 
Nor say in joy they shall not some day weep, 
For I once flourished, now my life is death, 
My stores of happiness one day engulphed. 
I charge thee by thy beard hear thou my prayer, 
Have pity ; seek the Achaean host and speak 
Persuasive words, 'tis malice bids you slay 
The women whom at first you did not kill, 
But from the altars seized, and spared them then. 
The law you Jive by shields alike the slave 
And freeborn man from death by violence. 
Thy influence, though even men shall revile thee, 
Must win. The self-same plea, by noted lips 
And lips unnoted framed, is not the same. 
CHORUS. There lives no man whose heart is hardened so 
That by thy cries and lingering lament 
Of woe unstirred, he should not weep for thee. 
ODYSSEUS. Learn wisdom, Hecuba ; let not thy anger 

Make him who speaks thee fair thy seeming foe. 
Thy life, through which my fortunes came to mend, 
I bind myself to save, I say nought else. 
But what to all I spake I'll not gainsay : 
Troy taken, now he who was our foremost warrior 
Asks his tomb and must have thy slaughtered child. 
It breeds infection in our commonwealths 
Whene'er a righteous and a loyal man 
Wins not some higher meed than those less worthy. 
Achilles earned what honors we can give, 
Woman, his glorious death defended Greece. 
Wer 't not a shame if, while he saw the light, 
We used the friend whom we abuse when dead ? 
So be it : then what must men say when next 
Our marshalled host sees strenuous war draw nigh ? 
" Are we to fight or to consult our ease , 
Seeing that he who falls no honor gets ? " 
In truth while life still lasts, from day to day 
A scant supply were quite enough for me. 
My grave, though, I would fain see reverenced, 
For gratitude must always be long-lived. 
Thou pleadest thy despair, my answer hear : 
With us are those who claim no less our pity, 



EXTRACTS FROM THE HECUBA. 



3£>3 



And some are old, yea, older even than thou, 
Some are young wives whose valiant husbands fell 
Where now the dust of Ida hides their bones. 
Bow to thy fate ; while we if we do err 
In honoring the brave must stand for fools. 
Thou and thy barbarous kindred all have friends 
But love them not, when brave men die for you 
You marvel not, and this helps Greece to triumph, 
And makes your fortunes match your foolishness. 

CHORUS. Alas ! what ills outrageous bondage has 
For slaves, unbearable and yet endured. 

Hecuba. My daughter, vanished are my words, my plea 
Assailed the air in vain to save thy life. 
With greater than thy mother's skill, plead thou. 
Use thou all Philomela's tearful notes 
And importune him for escape from death. 
A tearful suppliant, grasp Odysseus' senses ; 
Win him with words ; thou hast good arguments ; 
Since he has children thou shalt move his heart. 
POLYX. I see thee thrust, Odysseus, thy right hand 
Beneath thy cloak, and with averted face 
Turn from me, lest with suppliant hand I reach 
Thy beard. Take heart, my prayers shall not molest thee 
Lead, for I follow where strong fate requires, 
Fate and my love of death. Should I refuse 
It would betray a base and craven heart. 
Why must I live ? My father once was king 
Of Phrygia, thus life first was known to me, 
And then by bright hopes nurtured I grew up 
A bride for kings. And men grew jealous, too, 
Of him whose home and hearth might some clay claim me. 
Once mistress of Ida's women, all 
Among all maids once singled out, all me ! 
The equal then of gods, wer't not for death, 
And now a slave ! The very name of slave 
Makes me in love with death — it sounds so strange. 
Nay more, some master fierce at heart mayhap 
I yet shall find, bought with a price, even I, 
Sister of Hector erst and many brothers, 
Forced in his house to grind his corn and cake, 
To sweep his house and ply the loom for him ; 
My life through him shall be long agony. 
Yea, and my bed a slave from somewhere bought 
Shall soil, though once men deemed me fit for kings. 
No ! No ! my eyes renounce this light of day ; 
Still free, my body I consign to Hades. 
Odysseus, take me hence, guide and despatch me ; 
I see no hope, no expectation, naught 
That gives me heart or shows me joys to come. 
My mother, stand not thou against my will 
With word or deed. Give me thy counsels, help 
To die, ere by dishonor I am shamed. 
Who has not known the bitterness of woe 
Must wince when he must bear its galling yoke. 
More blessed far were he in death than thus 
Alive. For life dishonored means great woe. 

CHORUS. Dread is the mark and plain for men to see 

Which stamps the nobly born, their high repute 
Proves nobler than their birth when they are worthy. 

Hecuba. Honor inspires thy words, my child, but honor 



3 6 4 



EURIPIDES. 



Has with it pain. If Peleus' son must needs 
His pleasure have, and you must shun his blame, 
O then, Odysseus, leave her still not slain, 
Lead me away even to Achilles' tomb, 
Unsparing pierce me. I brought Paris forth 
Who aimed the shaft that ruined Thetis' son. 




PARIS AIMING AT ACHILLES. 



ODYSSEUS. Good woman, not thy death but hers required 

Achilles' ghost, and hers the Greeks must grant. 
HECUBA. Oh then, — but will you kill me with my child ? 
So shall the draught of blood be twice as much 
Which earth and he who asks for hers shall have. 
ODYSSEUS. This girl's one death suffices, we'll not add 
One more, I would we owed not even one. 
Hecuba. No power must part us, with my child I die. 
Odysseus. Is't truth? have I who know it not some master ? 

Hecuba. As to an oak I cling to her like ivy. 
Odysseus. Not if thou heedest wiser thoughts than thine. 

Hecuba. I'll not submit and let my daughter go. 
Odysseus. No more will I depart and leave her here. 
Polyx. Hear reason, mother, thou, Laertes' son, 

Deal gently with a parent's wounded heart, 
Thou must not strive against the strong, poor mother, 
Wouldst fall to earth and tear thy aged flesh. 
When force had sundered us and flung thee back 
Shall younger strength deface thy seemliness ? 
All this awaits thee — nay, not so — 'twere shameful, 
And now, my mother dear, thy darling hand 
Stretch out and let my cheek press close to thine. 
Never again, once now and never more, 
Light from the orbed sun I am to see. 
Hear thou the last of all my greetings given, 
Oh mother mine, I leave thee now to die. 
Hecuba. And I, my daughter, still must live a slave. 

POLYX. Unwed, defrauded of my marriage song. 
HECUBA. My child, thou art undone and I despair. 

POLYX. O I shall lie apart from thee in death. 
Hecuba. What shall I do ? Where go to end this life ? 

POLYX. My sire was free,yet I must die a slave. 
Hecuba. The childless mother I of many children. 
POLYX. To Hector, to thy aged spouse, what word ? 



EXTRACTS FROM THE HECUBA, 



;65 



Hecuba. 

Polyx. 
Hecuba. 

Polyx. 
Hecuba. 

Polyx. 
Hecuba. 

Polyx. 
Hecuba. 

Polyx. 



Hecuba. 



Say that none lives on earth with woes like mine. 
O bosom, breasts which some time nursed my life. 
O doom untimely of my wretched child. 
My mother, fare thee well, farewell Cassandra. 
Others may fare thee well, thy mother shall not. 
My Polydorus, fare thee well in Thrace. 
He may have died to round my tale of woe. 
He lives and he shall close thine eyes in death. 
My anguish is my death before I die. 
Away ! Odysseus, veil me in these folds ; 
Before you slay me I am dead at heart, 
Slain by her cries whom I with wailing slay — 
My mother. O light, I still may use thy name, 
Not thee, save while the journey lasts that parts 
The sword and Achilles' funeral pyre from me. 
Ah me ! I faint. My limbs give way and fail, 

daughter, take thy mother, give thy hand — 
Give, leave me not childless. My friends, I die. 
Oh but to see the Dioscuri's sister — 
Laconian Helen, whose most beauteous eyes 
Made hideous hell in blessed Troy that was. 
Breeze, breeze from the ocean deep 

That conveyest sea-faring craft 

Swift barks o'er the high-swelling floods, 

Whither wilt thou convoy me in my woe, 

By whom enslaved, a chattel in whose house 

Am I to sojourn on arriving? 

Dost thou bear me off to a roadstead in Dorian lands ? 

Or in Phthia where 

The father of goodliest water streams, 

(Men say) Apidanus fattens the furrowed fields, 

Or to what one among islands convoyed 

By the sea-smiting oar — wilt thou bring me 

To drag on a pitiful life indoors — 

Is it the isle where the palm first grew, 

Where the laurel its first hallowed shoots raised upward 

For Leto — well beloved, 

To comfort her awful travail? 

And there with Delian maids 

Shall I praise goddess Artemis' bow and her fillet of gold ? 

Is it the city of Pallas, 

Throned in a beauteous chariot, I am to visit, 

And there yoke young steeds on her saffron robe, 

On the richly fashioned flower-spangled web 

Broidering them, or even the Titan race, 

With Zeus, son of Cronos, lulling them to rest 

With the flash of his flames ? 

Woe is me for my offspring, 

For my fathers, for my fatherland, 

Which, washed by smoke, lies ravaged 

And taken by the spear of the Argives, 

And I in a land of strangers 

And called by the name of slave — 

1 have left the land of Asia 
And exchanged it for Europe, 

Where I find the bridal chamber of Hades. 



It is in passages like this that we may notice the resemblance between 
the plays of Euripides and those of the followers of Shakspere. The 



366 EURIPIDES. 

grand ethical simplicity of the great masters is lost, but the pathos of 
separate scenes is even keener and intenser in the later poets. 

This change, which is one of those most characteristic of Euripides, 
is accompanied by another, the use of the prologue to state very clearly 
what is going to happen in the play ; and the design of this contrivance 
has called forth much discussion. Since, however, the main effort of 
Euripides was to excel in the pathetic treatment of his incidents, and 
he often, for this purpose, modified the usual construction of the myths, 
he may have employed the prologue in this manner in order to fix the 
attention of his spectators on his own art. Nowhere could the mod- 
ern attraction of surprise have found itself a place in Greek tragedy. 
Throughout, familiar legends were told and retold as symbols of great 
truths ; and for them a prologue was not needed. When a man is in- 
terested in the pathology of the emotions, in their keen analysis, the 
importance of the plot as in itself an object of interest is sure to dwin- 
dle, as we see in the very modern novel, in which the story sinks into 
insignificance by the side of the accurate portrayal of thoughts and 
feelings. In Euripides probably similar causes brought forth similar 
results. 

Undoubtedly, too, the prologue was of great service in diminishing 
the necessity which lies heavy upon every dramatic writer, of making 
clear who are his characters and what are the conditions in which he 
proposes to exhibit them. Generally this exposition requires the whole 
of the first act, and we all know its tendency to make this part of the 
play a piece of conventionality, almost as artificial as a prologue thinly 
disguised by a dialogue in which old servants recount as much previous 
history as is necessary for the information of spectators. On the other 
hand, we may see in the first act of Macbeth how skilfully the state 
of affairs could be exhibited, and its perfection may be profitably com- 
pared with the cruder methods in As You Like It. Occasionally, 
as in the Hippolytus, the prologue of Euripides goes further and an- 
nounces what shall be the conclusion of the dramatic action. By so 
doing no play was set at any disadvantage in comparison with the 
others, because the myths on which all rested were matters of common 
knowledge, and the exact form of treatment — which was the main ob- 
ject of interest — yet remained to be developed. In general, however, 
the spectator was brought only to the point where the action began, 
and was free to observe the treatment with very good knowledge of the 
point to be reached. Some of the prologues have not reached us ; 
others are supposed to have been composed by the actors. But, who- 
ever composed them, the prologues are there, and have been a contin- 
ual object of abuse for those who are too glad to seize any opportunity 
to blame Euripides. 



IX TROD UCTION OF THE PERSOXAL ELEMENT IX TO TRA GED Y. 3 6 7 

The prologue of the Hecuba, spoken by the shade of her murdered 
son, informs the audience of his bloody end, and leaves the black cloud 
overhanging his distressed mother through the early part of the play, 
while she is still ignorant of his fate, and so intensifies rather than re- 
lieves the gloom of the tragedy. The spectator knew, though Hecuba 
herself did not, the additional blow that was awaiting her, and his sym- 
pathy was doubled. A more pathetic play than this can hardly be 
imagined, or one better fitted to serve as an example of the great 
pathos and intense personal interest that Euripides introduced into 
the solemn tragedy. Its severity was tempered by the human sympa- 
thy that he aroused, and he moved in the direction in which the people 
were moving. 

IV. 

In the Orestes we find the confusion that distinguishes Euripides 
most clearly marked, and we are as far as possible removed from the 
directness and simplicity of what we have previously seen in Greek 
tragedy. The story, which was perfectly familiar to all his fellow-citi- 
zens, and had been treated by ^Eschylus and Sophocles, receives here 
a novel turn. Orestes is represented as punished with madness for 
murdering his mother. When the populace decide that he shall die 
for this ill deed, Pylades urges him to revenge himself on Menelaus by 
killing Helen. But the gods take up Helen from them, and Electra 
delivers Hermione to them, and they were about to kill her, when 
Menelaus came in and endeavored to take the palace by storm. They 
anticipated his purpose and threatened to set it on fire. But Apollo 
appeared, saying that he had carried Helen to the gods, and bade 
Orestes marry Hermione, and Electra to live with Pylades, then Ores- 
tes, being freed from the taint of the murder of his mother, was to reign 
over Argos. Yet this incomplete outline does not in the least touch 
the tone in which the play is written. Instead of heroes, to whom 
there attaches a notion of grandeur and solemnity, we have citizens 
bearing the heroic names, who discuss their actions in the most every- 
day fashion. The wildness of the plot is evident, and easily explica- 
ble, for, since there was no single animating idea to be conveyed by 
the poet, the interest could be maintained only by the accentuation of 
the new personal element. The best way to accomplish this was by 
employing a variety of incidents and emotions. In our own time, 
when certainly the stage is not put to any great use as a moral instruc- 
tor, the interest of the spectator is kept alive by unexpected incidents. 
The tragedy of Euripides was debarred from this method by its em- 
ployment of the prologue, wherein the whole story was told, so that 



3 68 



EURIPIDES. 





the audience, knowing what they had to expect, were free to see how 
it. was represented. The poet's skill was devoted 
to the analysis of character, and here was his 
greatest success, in showing the play of passions 
and emotions. This made more prominent the 
fragmentary character of his plays ; literary art 
was in a state, not unfamiliar to men of this gen- 
eration, in which the parts were far better than 
the whole, and lines and passages were effective, 
while the play as a whole left a vague or unsatis- 
factory impression. It was not the whole charac- 
ter that he brought out, but flashes of ingenious 
and unexpected feeling. 

The Philoctetes of Sophocles is still heroic, 
although we may trace the effect of the work 
of Euripides, and of the changing times, in the 
humanity of that stubborn character. But 
Euripides is far more of a realist ; he lets the 
ludicrousness and vividness of life appear in a 
way that very naturally shocked his enemies, 
who held that tragedy had nothing to do with 

actual life. In the Hecuba one of the Trojan women 
who composed the chorus tells how she was binding 
her braided hair with fillets fastened on the top of 
her head, and was looking into the golden mirror, 
getting ready to go to bed, when suddenly a tumult 
filled the streets, and it was known that the Greeks 
had made an entrance into the city. In the Orestes 
there is a scene between the hero and a Phrygian 
slave that is comical in its nature, so much so that it 
has been suggested that this and other parts of the 
play were meant for parodies of other tragedies. 
This may be true, but it is a harsh view to take of any man, even a tra- 
gedian, that his jokes can be understood only 
after an interval of two thousand years. At any 
rate, is is clear that Euripides was willing to em- 
ploy even ridicule to make his plays vivid and life- 
like. The external form of the older work sur- 
vived, just as an echo of the full-mouthed Eliza- 
bethan tragedy was whispered softly in Dean Mil- 
man's plays, even so late as the first quarter of 
this century. This comparison must not lead us 
too far, how ever, for while Dean Milman was making a plaster-cast of 





IX CREASE OF COMPLEXITY IX THE DRAMA. 



369 



an old play, Euripides 
was trying to breathe 
new life into the old 
models. This p 1 a y 
shows how many were 
the incidents that were 
meant to take the place 
of the earlier simplic- 
ity. It was brought 
out in 408 B.C., and was 
the last of the plays that 
he wrote in Athens. 

The Phoenician Vir- 
gins, which stands next 
in the collection, was 
composed at an uncer- 
tain date. Again we 
have the crowded stage, 
for nearly all the woes 
of the Theban royal 
house are presented in 
a long procession in 
this tragedy, which 
makes up for the ab- 
sence of a single over- 
whelming passion by 
the abundance of sepa- 
rate pathetic scenes. 
Xo greater contrast can 
be imagined than that 
which this busy play 
presents to the sim- 
plicity and bare narra- 
tion of The Seven 
against Thebes, and no 
other tragedy more 
thoroughly represents 
the inevitable tendency 
of literature to proceed 
from large outlines to 
the rendering of slight 
details, the same differ- 
ence chat we see in 




- s, 



z 3 



37° EURIPIDES. 

the novel of the present day, when we compare it with the generous 
treatment of the Waverley novels, and that is further illustrated in an- 
other branch of work by the division of scientific study among specialists. 
The Medea, which was produced in 43 1 B.C., is one of the masterpieces 
of Euripides. The play was brought out in competition with Euphorion, 
the son of ^Eschylus, who probably gave some of his father's plays, 
and Sophocles, who received the first and second prizes respectively, 
while the third was given to Euripides. This is far from being the 
only instance in the brief history of Greek tragedy of the failure of a 
great play, although in this case it must be remembered that the Medea 
is the only surviving member of the tetralogy. It remains a model of 
the peculiar merit of its author before his later manner. The story of 
the Medea is simple and is told with great directness. She is the wife 
of Jason, who had profited by her aid in getting the Golden Fleece and 
had married her. Later he fell in love with Glauke, the daughter of 
Creon, and married her. The subject of the play is the wild wrath and 
jealous fury of Medea at his desertion. She is sentenced to exile by 
Creon, who fears her anger, but she succeeds in getting twenty-four 
hours' delay, in which time she sends to the new bride of Jason deadly 
gifts by which she perishes, and, moreover, she slays her own and 
Jason's children. She is carried away, with the bodies of her children, 
by ^Egeus, in a chariot, and betakes herself to Athens. This whole 
bloody history was treated by Euripides with masterly skill. His 
ingenious drawing of the infuriated wife showed how close was his 
observation, how delicate his sympathy. Gods and goddesses are in 
distant Olympus, but two of the eternal elements of human nature, 
maternal love and the fierceness of jealousy, are caught and set down 
for the delight of centuries. The play advances in excitement from 
the moment it begins, and the old nurse utters her forebodings of 
trouble as Medea lies without tasting food, her body sunk in grief, 
dissolving all her tedious time in tears, since she knew that her husband 
had wronged her. 

" And will not raise her eyes, nor from the ground 
Lift up her face. As a rock might or sea-wave. 
Does she hear those who love her counselling her." 

It is with impressive art that Medea's wails are heard behind the 
scenes, utterly distraught as she is and yearning for death. When she 
appears, it is with an expression of regret for the miserable condition 
of women, and of her determination to find revenge in some way, and 
the chorus of Corinthian women freely express their sympathy. When 
Creon enters and orders her into banishment, she argues most ably: 
" Never," she says, 




MEDEA CONTEMPLATING THE SLAUGHTER OF HER CHILDREN. 
( Po mpe ii a n IVa ll-pa inting . ) 



37 2 EURIPIDES. 

" Never fits it one born prudent-souled 
To have his children reared surpassing wise ; 
For, added to their blame of lavished time, 
They win cross envy from their citizens. 
For, offering a new wisdom unto fools, 
Thou shalt be held a dullard, not a sage : 
And, if deemed more than those who make a show 
Of varied subtleties, then shalt thou seem 
A mischief in the city. Yea, myself 
I share this fortune ; for, being wise, I am 
To some a mark for envy, and to some 
Abhorrent. Yet I am not very wise." 

There is but little doubt that Euripides knew very well the world he 
lived in, and this is further to be seen in the skill with which this 
passionate woman is driven to decide by just what measures she shall 
wreak her vengeance; her only thought is of the means, whether to 
burn them, to cut their throats, or to take the straight and familiar 
path and give them poison. While she tries to persuade Creon, and 
commands herself for her own purposes, she does not spare Jason, 
who, naturally enough, does not hold an advantageous position, and 
he does not protect himself by assuring Medea that although she hates 
him, he could never wish her evil. This cold civility has its natural 
effect ; and Medea's lashing tongue, as it were, flays the wretched 
Jason, who feebly tries to show what advantages have come to her in 
her new home. The great scene, however, is when Medea is debating 
with herself the murder of her children. This has been thus translated 
by Mr. Symonds : 

" O, children, children ! you have still a city — 
A home, where, lost to me and all my woe, 
You will live out your lives without a mother ! 
But I — lo ! I am for another land, 
Leaving the joy of you : to see you happy, 
To deck your marriage bed, to greet your bride, 
To light your wedding torch shall not be mine ! 

me, thrice wretched in my own self-will ! 

In vain, then, dear my children ! did I rear you ; 

In vain I travailed, and with wearing sorrow 

Bore bitter anguish in the hour of childbirth ! 

Yea, of a sooth, I had great hope of you, 

That you should cherish my old age, and deck 

My corpse with loving hands, and make me blessed 

'Mid women in my death. But now, ah, me ! 

Hath perished that sweet dream. For long without you 

1 shall drag out a weary doleful age. 
And you shall never see your mother more 
With your dear eyes, for all your life is changed. 
Woe, woe ! 

Why gaze you at me with your eyes, my children ? 
Why smile your last sweet smile ? Ah, me ! ah, me ! 
What shall I do ? My heart dissolves within me, 
Friends, when I see the glad eyes of my sons ! 



MEDEA'S SOLILOQUY— E MO TI OX A L QUALITY. 373 

I can not. Xo ! my will that was so steady, 

Farewell to it. They, too, shall go with me. 

Why should 1 wound their sin with what wounds them, 

Heaping tenfold his woes on my own head ? 

No, no ; I shall not. Perish my proud will. 

Yet, whence this weakness ? Do I wish to reap 

The scorn that springs from enemies unpunished ? 

Dare it I must. What craven fool am I 

To let soft thoughts flow trickling from my soul ! 

Go, boys, into the house ; and he who may not 

Be present at my solemn sacrifice — 

Let him see to it. My hand shall not falter. 

Ah! ah! 

Nay, do not, O my heart ! do not this thing ! 

Suffer them, O poor fool — yea, spare thy children ! 

There in thy exile they will gladden thee. 

Not so : by all the plagues of nethermost hell 

It shall not be that I, that I should suffer 

My foes to triumph and insult my sons ! 

Die must they : this must be, and since it must, 

I, I myself will slay them, I who bore them. 

So it is fixed, and there is no escape. 

Even as I speak, the crown is on her head ; 

The bride is dying in her robes — I know it. 

But since this path most piteous I tread, 

Sending them forth on paths more piteous far, 

I will embrace my children. Oh, my sons, 

Give, give your mother your dear hands to kiss ! 

Oh, dearest hands, and mouths most dear to me, 

And forms and noble faces of my sons ! 

Be happy even then: what here was yours, 

Your father robs you of. Oh, loved embrace ! 

Oh, tender touch and sweet breath of my boys ! 

Go ! go ! go ! leave me ! Lo, I cannot bear 

To look on you: my woes have overwhelmed me ! 

Now know I all the ill I have to do : 

But rage is stronger than my better mind, 

Rage, cause of greatest crimes and griefs to mortals." 

In the whole Greek drama it would be hard to find a speech more 
compact of personal emotion than this vivid representation of the con- 
flict in a woman's heart between fury and maternal love. Often in the 
Greek plays we find argumentative speeches defending one course of 
action, or describing some incident; here we have a soliloquy unfold- 
ing the internal strife, and thus being an almost transparent medium 
between Medea's anguished heart and the spectator. The epical ele- 
ment of narration has vanished, we have here the direct delineation of 
passion. Thanks to this quality, the play has lived triumphant in 
modern literature, for it appeals directly to a universal human sym- 
pathy. 

An interesting fact about this play is that it was preceded by one 
from the hands of Neophron, of which there is left a fragment of the 
speech in which his Medea determines to kill her children. It has 
been thus translated by Mr. Symonds: 



374 EURIPIDES. 

" Well, well ; what wilt thou do, my soul ? Think much 
Before this sin be sinned, before thy dearest 
Thou turn to deadliest foes. Whither art bounding ? 
Restrain thy force, thy god-detested fury. 
And yet why grieve I thus, seeing my life 
Laid desolate, despitefully abandoned 
By those who least should leave me ? Soft, forsooth, 
Shall I be in the midst of wrongs like these ? 
Nay, heart of mine, be not thy own betrayer ! 
Ah me ! 'Tis settled. Children, from my sight 
Get you away ! for now blood-thirsty madness 
Sinks in my soul and swells it. Oh, hands, hands, 
Unto what deed are we accoutred ! Woe ! 
Undone by my own daring ! In one minute 
I go to blast the fruit of my long toil." 

It is not too much to say that this reads like a first draft of the 
more complicated speech that we find in Euripides. If we had been 
more fortunate in recovering the lost work of the second-rate drama- 
tists we should then see more clearly than we now do the gradual un- 
folding of the various tendencies of Greek tragedy. The fragments 
left to us are too scanty to serve as anything but faint indications of 
the abundance of plays : 

Chorus. 

Strophe I. 
No hope left us now for the children's life ; 
No hope ; they are passing on to death ; 
And the gift that comes to the new-made wife 
Is the gift of a curse in her golden wreath. 

Alas for her doom ! 
Round about her yellow hair 
Her own hand will set it there, 
Signet jewel of the tomb. 

Antistrophe I. 
By the grace and the perfect gleaming won 
She will place the gold-wrought crown on her head, 
She will robe herself in the robe ; and anon 
She will deck her a bride among the dead. 

Alas for her doom ! 
Fallen in such snare, too late 
Would she struggle from her fate, 
Hers the death-lot of the tomb. 

Strophe II. 
But thou, oh wretched man, oh woeful-wed, 
Yet marriage-linked to kings ; thou, all unseeing, 
Who nearest fast 

A swift destruction to thy children's being, 
A hateful death to her who shares thy bed, 
Oh hapless man, how fallen from thy past ! 

Antistrophe II. 
And miserable mother of fair boys, 
We mourn too, thy despair with outburst weeping, 
Thine who wouldst kill 

Thy sons for the wife's couch where lonely sleeping 
Thy husband leaves thee for new lawless joys 



EXTRACT FROM THE MEDEA. 375 

With a new home-mate who thy place shall fill. 

Attendant. 
Mistress, thy children are forgiven from exile : 
And in her hands the queenly bride, well pleased, 
Received the gifts. Thence good-will to thy sons. 

Medea. 
Alas! 

Attendant. 
Why dost thou stand aghast when thou hast prospered ? 

Medea. 
Woe 's me ! 

Attendant. 
This chimes not with the tidings I declare. 

Medea. 
Woe's me again ! 

Attendant. 
I have not heralded mischance I know not, 
And missed my joy of bringing happy news. 

Medea. 
Thou hast brought what thou hast brought : I blame thee not. 

Attendant. 
Why then dost droop thine eyes and dost weep tears ? 

Medea. 
There is much cause, old man. For this the gods 
And I by my own wild resolves have wrought. 

Attendant. 
Take heart. For through thy sons thou'lt yet return. 

Medea. 
Alas ! I shall send others home ere that. 

Attendant. 
Thou 'rt not the only one torn from her sons, 
And being mortal lightly shouldst bear griefs. 

MedEa. 
And so I will. But go thou in the house, 
Prepare my children what the day requires. 
Oh sons, my sons, for you there is a home 
And city where, forsaking wretched me, 
Ye shall still dwell and have no mother more ; 
But I, an exile, seek another land, 
Ere I have joyed in you and seen you glad, 
Ere I have decked for you the nuptial pomp, 
The bride, the bed, and held the torch aloft. 
Oh me ! forlorn by my untempered moods ! 
In vain then have I nurtured ye, my sons, 
In vain have toiled and been worn down by cares, 
And felt the hard, child-bearing agonies. 
There was a time when I, unhappy one, 
Had many hopes in you, that both of you 
Would cherish me in age, and that your hands, 
When I am dead, would fitly lay me out — 
That wish of all men : but now lost indeed 
Is that sweet thought, for I must, reft of you, 
Live on a piteous life and full of pain ; 
And ye, your dear eyes will no more behold 
Your mother, gone into your new strange life. 



37 6 EURIPIDES. 

Alas ! Why do ye fix your eyes on me, 

My sons? Why smile ye on me that last smile ? 

Alas ! What must I do ? For my heart faints, 

Thus looking on my children's happy eyes. 

Women, I cannot. Farewell my past resolves, 

My boys, go forth with me. What boots it me 

To wring their father with their cruel fates, 

And earn myself a doubled misery ? 

It shall not be, shall not. Farewell resolves. 

And yet what mood is this ? Am I content 

To spare my foes and be a laughing-stock ? 

It must be dared. Why, out upon my weakness 

To let such coward thoughts steal from my heart ! 

Go, children, to the house. And he who lacks 

Right now to stand by sacrifice of mine, 

Let him look to it. I'll not stay my hand. 

Alas ! Alas ! 
No, surely. O my heart, thou canst not do it ; 
Racked heart, let them go safely, spare the boys : 
Living far hence with me they'll make thee joy. 
No ; by the avenging demon-gods in hell, 
Never shall be that I should yield my boys 
To the despitings of mine enemies. 
For all ways they must die, and, since 'tis so, 
Better I slay them, I who gave them birth. 
All ways 'tis fated : there is no escape. 
For now, in the robes, the wealth upon her head, 
The royal bride is perishing ; I know it. 
But, since I go on so forlorn a journey, 
And them too send on one yet more forlorn, 
I'd fain speak with my sons. Give me, my children, 
Give your mother your right hands to clasp to her. 
Oh darling hands, oh, dearest lips to me; 
Oh forms and noble faces of my boys ! 
Be happy : but there. For of all part here 
Your father has bereft you. Oh sweet kiss, 
Oh grateful breath and soft skin of my boys ! 
Go, go. I can no longer look on you, 
But by my sufferings am overborne. 
Oh I do know what sorrows I shall make, 
But anger keeps the mastery of my thoughts, 
Which is the chiefest cause of human woes. 

Chorus. 

Oftentimes now have I ere to-day 

Reached subtler reasons, joined higher debates, 

Than womanhood has the right to scan. 

But 'tis that with us too there walks a muse 

Discoursing high things — yet not to us all, 

Since few of the race of women there be, 

(Thou wert like to find among many but one), 

Not friendless of any muse. 

And now I aver that of mortals those 

Who have never wed, or known children theirs, 

Than parents are happier far. 

For the childless at least, through not making essay, 

If sons be born for a joy or a curse, 

Having none, are safe from such miseries. 

But such as have springing up in their homes 

Sweet blossom and growth of children, them 



EXTRA C T FROM THE MEDEA . 377 

I see worn with cares through the weary while : 

First how to rear them in seemly wise 

And how to leave the children estate ; 

Then next, whether they are spending themselves 

For ignoble beings or for good, 

That is left dark from their ken. 

But one last ill of all. to all men 

Now will I speak. For if they have found 

Sufficing estate, and their children have waxed 

To the glory of youth, and moreover are good, 

If their lot have chanced to them thus, lo Death, 

Vanished back to his Hades again, 

Has snatched the forms of the children away. 

And what avails it for children's sake 

To have the gods heap on mortals' heads 

This bitterest, deadly despair ? 

Medea. 

Friends, now for long abiding the event, 
Eager I gaze for what shall come of it ; 
And now discern a servitor of Jason's 
Advancing hither. And his gasping breath 
Declares him messenger of some dire news. 

Messenger. 
Oh thou who hast wrought a horrible wild deed, 
Medea, fly, fly, sparing not car of the waves, 
Nor chariot hurrying thee across the plains. 

Medea. 
But what hath chanced to me worth such a flight ? 

Messenger. 
The royal maiden is this moment dead, 
With Creon her father, by thy magic drugs. 

Medea. 
Thou hast told sweetest news. From henceforth rank 
Among my benefactors and my friends. 

Messenger. 
What sayest thou ? Lady, hast thou thy right wits, 
Nor rav'st, who, having outraged the king's hearth, 
Joy'st at the hearing and dost nothing fear ? 

Medea. 
Somewhat in sooth I have to answer back 
To these thy words. But be not hasty, friend. 
Come, tell me how they died. For twice so much 
Wilt thou delight me if they died in torments. 

Messenger. 
When then the boys, thy two sons, had arrived, 
And with their father entered the bride's house, 
We servants, who were troubled for thy griefs, 
Rejoiced : and much talk shortly filled our ears, 
Thou and thy husband had made up past strife. 
One kissed the hand and one the golden head 
Of thy young sons, and I myself, for joy, 
Followed the boys into the women's halls. 
But our mistress, whom we serve now in thy place, 
Before she saw thy sons come side by side, ' 
Kept her glad gaze on Jason : then ere long 



378 



EURIPIDES. 



She hid her eyes and turned away from him 

Her whitened face, loathing- the boys' approach. 

But thy husband checked his young bride's heat and rage, 

Thus speaking : " Be not rancorous to thy friends, 

But cease thy wrath and turn again thy head, 

Counting those dear who 're to thy husband dear. 

Take then their gifts, and of thy father pray 

He spare for my sake my boys' banishment." 

And when she saw the gauds she said no nay, 

But spoke her husband sooth in all. And ere 

The father and the boys had gone far forth 

She took the shimmering robes and put them on, 

And, setting round her curls the golden crown, 




SCENES FROM THE MEDEA. 
{Drawing from A mphora.) 

At the bright mirror stroked her tresses right, 

And smiled on the mute likeness of herself. 

Next, risen from her couch, flits through the room, 

Daintily tripping on her milk-white feet, 

With the gifts overjoyed, often and long 

O'er her slant shoulder gazing on herself ; 

But then a sight came dread to look upon, 

For a change comes on her hue; she staggers back, 

Shuddering in every limb, and scarce wins time 

To fall upon her couch, not to the ground. 



EXTRACT FROM THE MEDEA. 379 

Then an old waiting-dame, who deemed the wrath 

Of Pan or other god had come on her, 

Shrilled the prayer-chaunt ; I trow before she saw 

The white foam oozing through the mouth, the eyes 

Start from their sockets strained, the bloodless flesh. 

For then, far other wailing than her chaunt, 

Came her great shriek. Straight to the father's house 

Rushed one, another to the new-wed husband, 

To tell of the bride's fate ; and all the .house 

Was ringing with incessant hurrying steps. 

By this might a swift walker stretching limb 

Have touched the goal of the six plethra course, 

And she, who had been speechless, with shut eyes, 

Fearfully moaned, poor wretch, and started up : 

For twofold anguish did make war on her, 

For both the golden crown set round her head 

Was sending marvelous streams of eating fire, 

And the fine-webbed robe, the offering of thy sons, 

Was gnawing at the hapless one's white flesh. 

But she, sprung from her couch, now flies, ablaze, 

Tossing her head and curls this way and that, 

Fain to dash off the crown. But all too firm 

The golden headband clave ; and still the fire 

Flamed doubly fiercer when she tossed her locks. 

And, conquered by her fate, she drops to the floor, 

Scarce, but by her own father to be known : 

For neither the grave sweetness of her eyes, 

Nor her fair face was visible ; but blood 

Mingled with flame was welling from her head, 

And, by the secret poison gnawed, her flesh 

Dropped from the bones, as resin-gouts from the fir,— 

Dreadful to see. And none dared touch the dead, 

For her fate had we to our monitor ; 

But the hapless father, through his ignorance 

Of how she perished, having ere we knew 

Entered the chamber, falls upon the corse, 

Breaks instant into wailing, and, her body 

Enfolded in his clasp, he kisses her, 

Thus calling on her, " Oh, unhappy child, 

What god hath foully clone thee thus to death? 

Who makes this charnel heap of moldering age 

Thy childless mourner ? Oh, woe worth the while ! 

Would now that I might die with thee, my child." 

But, when he stayed his sobbings and laments 

And would have raised his aged body up, 

He, as the ivy by the laurel's boughs, 

By the fine-webbed robes was caught ; and fearful grew 

The struggle. He sought on his knees to rise ; 

She held him back. And if by force he rose 

He tore the aged flesh from off his bones. 

And then at length the evil-fated man 

Ceased and gave up the ghost, able no more 

To cope with that great anguish. And they lie, 

Father and daughter, corpses side by side : 

A sight of sorrow that appeals for tears. 

And truly let thy fortunes be apart 

From reasonings of mine : for thou thyself 

Wilt know a shelter from the retribution. 

But not now first I count the lot of man 

A passing shadow : and I might say those 



3 8 ° EURIPIDES. 

Of mortals who are very seeming wise 

And fret themselves with learnings, those are they 

Who make them guilty of the chiefest folly ; 

But no one mortal is a happy man, 

Though, riches flooding in, more prosperous 

One than another grow ; yet none is happy. 

Chorus. 

Fortune, it seems, on Jason will to-day 
Justly heap many woes. Oh hapless one, 
Daughter of Creon, how we mourn thy fate, 
Who to the halls of Hades art gone forth 
Because of Jason's marrying with thee. 

Medea. 
My friends, this purpose stand approved to me, 
Slaying my boys to hurry from this realm ; 
Not, making weak delays, to give my sons 
By other and more cruel hands to die. 
Nay, steel thyself, my heart. Why linger we 
As not to do that horror which yet must be ? 
Come, oh, my woeful hand, take, take the sword 
On to my new life's mournful starting point, 
And be no coward, nor think on thy boys, 
How dear, how thou didst give them birth. Nay, rather 
For this short day forget they are thy sons : 
Then weep them afterwards. For though thou slay'st them, 
Oh, but they're dear, and I a desolate woman. 

Chorus. 

Strophe. 
Earth, and all-lighting glow of sun, 
Behold ! behold ! 
See this sad woman and undone, 
Ere yet her murderous hand, made bold 
Against her own, her children slay. 
For they sprang of the golden stem 
Of thy descent ; and great to-day 
Our dread the blood of gods in them 
Shall by a mortal's wrath be spilt. 
But now do thou, Oh, Zeus-born light, 
Stay her — prevent ; put thou to flight 
That fell Erinnys to this home 
From God's avenging past crimes, come 
To whelm her in despair and guilt. 

A7itistrophe. 
Upon thy children has thy care 
Been spent in vain ; 

In vain thy loved babes didst thou bear ; 
Thou who the inhospitable lane 
Of the dark rocks Sympleglades 
Didst leave behind thee in thy wake. 
Forlorn one, why do pangs like these 
Of passion thy torn spirit shake ? 
Why shall stern murder of them grow ? 
For scarce is any cleansing found 
Of kindred blood that from the ground 
For vengeance cries : but like for like 
The gods send curses down and strike 
The slayers and their houses low. 



EXTRACT FROM THE MEDEA. 

First Son. 

Alas: 

What shall I do ? Whither run from our mother ? 

Second Sox. 

I know not, dearest brother, for we perish. 

Chorus. 

Dost hear thy children, hear their cry of pair. ? 
Oh luckless woman, desperate ! 
Shall I within the house then ? I were fain 
To shield the children from such fate. 

First Son. 
Ho ! in the gods* name, rescue ! There is need. 

Second Son. 
For we are in the toils, beneath the knife. 
Chorus. 

Oh cruel, what, of stone or steel, art thou, 

Thou who that bloom, 

Of sons thyself didst bear wouldst see die now 

By thine hands' doom ? 

One woman have I heard of, one alone, 

And of the far-off days, whose deathful hand 

Was laid upon the babes that were her own, 

Ino by gods distraught, when from her land 

She by the queenly spouse of Zeus was banned, 

Sent to roam to and fro ; 

And, seeking her sons' death, she, wild with woe, 

Stretched forth her foot from off the sea's rough strand, 

Whelmed her with them into the waves below, 

And, they so dying with her, died. 

Henceforth can aught called strange or dread be: - '■ 

Oh bed of woman, with all mischief fraught. 

What ills hast thou ere now to mortals brought ! 

Jason. 

Women, ye who thus stand about the house, 
Is she within her home who wrought these crimes, 
Medea, or hath she gone away in flight ? 
For now must she or hide beneath the earth 
Or lift herself with wings into wide air 

:o pay forfeit to the royal house. 
Thinks she, having slain the rulers of this land, 

-':" uninjured from this home to fly ? 
But not of her I reck as of my sons : 
Her those she wronged will evilly requite. 
But to preserve my children's life I came, 
Lest to my hurt the avenging kin on them 
Wreak somewhat for their mother's bloody crime. 

Chorus. 
Oh, wretched man ! What woes thou com'st to. Jason, 
Thou know'st not. else hadst thou not said these wor s 

JASC v. 

What is it ? Seeks she then to kill me too ? 

Chorus. 
The boys have perished by their mother's hand. 



82 EURIPIDES. 

Jason. 
Woe ! What sayst thou ? Woman, how thou destroy st me ! 

Chorus. 
And now no more in being count thy sons. 

Jason. 
Where killed she them, in the house or without ? 

Chorus. 
Open these gates, thou'lt see thy murdered sons. 

Jason. 
Undo the bolt on the instant, servants there, 
Loose the clamps, that I may see my grief and bane, 
May see them dead and guerdon her with death. 

Medea {front overhead). 
Why dost thou batter at these gates, and force them, 
Seeking the dead and me who wrought their deaths ? 
Cease from this toil. If thou hast need of me 
Speak then, if thou wouldst aught. But never more 
Thy hand shall touch me ; such a chariot 
The Sun, my father's father, gives to me, 
A stronghold from the hand of enemies. 

Jason. 

Oh, loathsome thing, oh woman most abhorred 

Of gods and me and all the race of men, 

Thou who hast dared to thrust the sword in thy sons 

Thyself didst bear, and hast destroyed me out, 

Childless. And thou beholdest sun and earth, 

Who didst this, daredst this most accursed deed ! 

Perish. Oh, I am wise now, then unwise, 

When from thy home in thy barbarian land 

I brought thee with me to a Hellene house, 

A monstrous bane to the land that nurtured thee ; 

And to thy father traitress. Now at me 

Have the gods launched thy retributory fiends, 

Who, slaying first thy brother at the hearth, 

Hiedst thee unto the stately-prowed ship Argo. 

Such thy first deeds : then, married to myself, 

And having borne me children, for a spite 

Of beddings and weddings thou hast slaughtered them. 

There's not a Hellene woman had so dared ; 

Above whom I, forsooth, choose thee to wife — 

A now loathed tie and ruinous to me — 

Thee lioness, not woman, of a mood 

Than the Tursenian Scylla more untamed. 

Enough ; for not with thousands of rebukes 

Could I wring thee, such is thine hardihood. 

Avaunt, thou guilty shame ! child-murderess ! 

But mine it is to wail my present fate; 

Who nor of my new spousals shall have gain, 

Nor shall have sons whom I begot and bred, 

To call my living own : for I have lost them. 

Medea. 
I would have largely answered back thy words 
If Zeus the father knew not what from me 
Thou didst receive and in what kind hast done. 



EXTRACT FROM THE MEDEA. 3 8 3 

And 'twas not for thee, having spurned my love, 

To lead a merry life, flouting at me, 

Nor for the princess ; neither was it his 

Who gave her thee to wed, Creon, unscathed, 

To cast me out of this his realm. And now, 

If it is so like thee, call me lioness 

And Scylla, dweller on Tursenian plains, 

For as right bade me, I have clutched thy heart. 

Jason. 
And thou too sufferest, partner in the pangs. 

Medea. 
True, but the pain profits if thou shalt not flout. 

Jason. 
Oh sons, how foul a mother have ye had ! 

Medea. 
Oh boys, how died ye by your father's guilt ! 

Jason. 
Not this right hand of mine slew them, indeed. 

Medea. 
No, but thine outrage and new wedding ties. 

Jason. 
So for a bed lost thou thoughtst fit to slay them ? 

Medea. 
Dost thou count that a light wrong to a woman ? 

Jason. 
Aye, to a chaste one : but thou 'rt wholly base. 

Medea. 
They are no more. For this will torture thee. 

Jason. 
They are, I say — a haunting curse for thee. 

Medea. 
Who first begun the wrong the gods do know. 

Jason. 
Thy loathly mind they verily do know. 

Medea. 
Thou 'rt hateful : and I'm sick of thy cross talk. 

Jason. 
And I of thine : but the farewell is easy. 

Medea. 
Well, how ? What shall I do ? I too long for it. 

Jason. 
Let me then bury and bemoan these dead. 

Medea. 
Never. Since I will bury them with this hand, 
Bearing them to the sacred grove of Hera, 
God of the heights, that no one of my foes 
Shall do despite to them, breaking their graves. 
And I'll appoint this land of Sisyphus 



3 8 4 EURIPIDES. 

A solemn high day and a sacrifice 

For aye, because of their unhallowed deaths, 

For I go to the city of Erechtheus, 

To dwell w r ith ^Egeus there, Pandion's son, 

For thee, as is most fit, thou, an ill man, 

Shalt die an ill death, thy head battered in 

By the ruins of thine Argo : that, to thee, 

The sharp last sequel of our wedding tie. 

Jason. 
But thee may thy children's Erinnys slay 
And Vengeance for blood. 

Medea. 
And who among gods and friends will hear thee 
Betrayer of strangers and breaker of oaths ? 

Jason. 
Out, out, stained wretch and child murderess. 

Medea. 
Go now to thy home and bury thy bride. 

Jason. 
I go. Yea, of both my children bereft. 

Medea. 
Thy wail is yet nothing. Wait and grow old, 

Jason. 
Oh, sons, much loved ! 

Medea. 
Of their mother,not thee. 

Jason. 
And yet thou didst slay them. 

Medea. 
Making thee woe. 

Jason. 
Alas ! alas ! I, a woeful man, 
Desire to kiss the clear lips of my boys. 

Medea. 
Thou callst on them now, hast welcomes now ; 
Then didst reject them. 

Jason. 
In the gods' name, 
Give me to touch my children's soft flesh. 

Medea. 
It may not be : thy words are vain waste. 

Jason. 
Oh Zeus, dost thou hear how I'm kept at bay, 
And this that is done unto me of her, 
This foul and child-slaying lioness ? 
But still to my utmost as best I may 
I make these death-wails and invokings for them \ 
Thus to my witness calling the gods, 
How thou, having slain my sons, dost prevent 
That I touch with my hand and bury the dead — 
Whom would I had never begotten, so 
By thee to behold them destroyed. 



THE CROWNED HIPPOLYTUS. 385 

Chorus. 
Zeus in Olympus parts out many lots, 
And the gods work to many undreamed of ends, 
And that we looked for is never fulfilled, 
And to things not looked for the gods make a way : 
Even so hath this issue been. 

V. 

The Crowned Hippolytus, like the Medea, has served as an inspira- 
tion to the modern stage, although it can scarcely be denied that they 
both owe part of this long life to the fact that Seneca used them in 
the preparation of two of his famous plays. That his treatment of the 
old subjects abounded with gross faults will be seen later; yet their 
very extravagances, by suiting the raw taste of an unpolished age, led 
the modern public back to the study of antiquity. His Phaedra was 
probably taken from some other original than this Crowned Hip- 
polytus, for Phaedra was the heroine of other plays than this. One of 
them, the work of Euripides, was known as the Veiled Hippolytus, 
from the fact that the hero hid his head in shame when his stepmother 
confessed her love for him. The Crowned Hippolytus was so called 
from the fact that the hero appeared, bearing a crown to offer to 
Artemis. While the earlier play was a failure, this revision was 
a great success. It was brought out in 428 B.C., winning for its 
author the first prize. The scene of the play is Trazene, where Hip- 
polytus, the son of Theseus, had been brought up. The prologue, 
after the awkward fashion which was not employed in the Medea, 
announces with the dryness of a playbill the action of the play: 
Phaedra, the stepmother of Hippolytus, is cursed by Aphrodite with 
love of that young hero. He is represented a charming youth, fond 
of hunting and of the country, and a devoted worshippei of Artemis. 
Indeed, while the gods stand above the scene and create confusion for 
men and women, in this instance bringing about the death of Hip- 
polytus on account of Aphrodite's jealousy of Artemis, yet even here 
the action rests on human deeds and emotions. Thus Hippolytus is 
drawn in a most natural way. His love for the country is beautifully 
given, as these lines will show : 

" Welcome to me, O fairest 

Artemis, loveliest maiden 

Of them that walk on Olympus ! 
I bring for thee a plaited wreath of flowers 
From meadow lands untrodden and unmown. 
There never shepherd dares to feed his flocks, 
Nor iron comes therein ; only the bee 
Through that unsullied meadow in the spring 
Flies on and leaves it pure, and Reverence 
Freshens with rivers' dew the tended flowers. 




ARTEMIS, THE GODDESS OF THE CHASE. 
(Statue in the Louvre.} 



THE CROWXED HIPPOLYTUS— PHAEDRA'S LAMEXT. 3 b 7 

And only they whose virtue is untaught, 

They that inherit purity, may pluck 

Their bloom and gather it — no baser man. 

Yet, O dear mistress, from this pious hand 

Take thou a garland for thy golden hair. 

For I, of all men, only am thy friend 

To share thy converse and companionship, 

Hearing thy voice, whose eyes I never see — 

And thus may I live until I reach the goal ! " 

Yet even here we may detect the self-satisfaction which leads Hip- 
polytus to his fate. The last lines express his consciousness of his 
superiority, and it is with great tact that Euripides lets his hero dis- 
play the fanaticism by which alone the Greeks could explain his 
detestation of Aphrodite. When Phaedra appears, it is to find the 
spectators understanding that she is under the ban of some offended 
deity. Still this divine interference is swiftly reconciled with the facts 
of life. The nurse who brings Phaedra out upon the stage is as far as 
possible removed from a solemn agent of offended deities. She is 
rather a remote ancestress of Mrs. Gamp, with her selfish, complaining, 
and familiar advice. Here are her first words : 

"Alas! the miseries of mankind and their odious diseases! What 
must I do for you, and what not do? Here you have light and air, 
and the couch on which you are lying sick has been moved out of 
doors, for you were forever talking about coming out ; but soon you 
will be in a hurry to go back to your room, for you are very fickle and 
nothing contents you. What is present gives you no pleasure ; what 
you lack, you fancy more agreeable. Tending the sick is Avorse than 
being sick — one is a simple evil; the other combines mental distress 
and hard work." Of course, in the measures of the original, these 
words lacked the flippancy which they acquire in prose, for the unity 
of composition in a tragedy which had acquired its form under the 
solemn inspiration of the deepest religious sentiment compelled that 
all such living flavors should adopt a majestic expression ; yet, in 
spite of this cloak, the familiarity of the nurse's speech must have been 
distinctly perceptible to the spectators. When Phaedra begins to 
utter her distracted lament, the nurse repeats her commonplace con- 
solation, and seeks the cause of her misery, and almost always with 
the same vulgar curiosity. This quality stands in marked contrast with 
Phaedra's despair. When her secret becomes known, she beseeches 
her unworthy confidant not to tell it. The nurse, however, is brutal 
in her frankness : 

" Why do you talk in this fine strain ! You need not choice words, 
but the man." And out of her own head, having promised to arrange 
matters honorably, she tells Hippolytus that Phaedra loves him. The 
Chorus hear his wrathful utterances at being- told this, and in a moment 



3§8 



E URIPIDES. 



he bursts in full of fury and giving expression to his hatred of women. 
Phaedra, overcome by remorse, hangs herself, and when her husband, 
Theseus, returns he finds in her lifeless hand a letter in which she has 
accused him of pursuing her with unholy love. In his grief and anger 
Theseus bitterly denounces his son and orders him into exile. Hip- 
polytus is bound to secrecy by an oath to the nurse and departs in his 
chariot. The horses carry him to the seashore, and there he is beaten 
against the rocks by the sea. When he is brought back dying, 




THE NURSE DISCLOSES TO HIPPOLYTUS THE LOVE OF HIS STEPMOTHER PH^DRA. 
{Wall Painting — Herculanewn.) 

Artemis appears and explains the ruin that Aphrodite has wrought. 
Theseus is broken-hearted ; he says : 

" Oh, son, forsake me not for death. Take heart." 

To which Hippolytus makes answer: 

" I have done with taking heart, father. I die ! 
Cover my face, and swiftly, with the robe." 

The position that the gods hold, of superior and wilful interrupters 
of public and private peace,is not an exalted one. They possess no 



THE IXFERIOR POSITIOX OF THE GODS— EXTRACTS. 3 8 9 

quality of lofty rule. The etiquette of Olympus forbids that Artemis 
should intervene to protect this ill-starred family from the wrath of 
Aphrodite. They exist only as conventional dramatic characters, who 
inspire other feelings than reverence. There is, indeed, a clashing 
between their interference and the natural conduct of the play, but 
they were as essential a part of the Greek stage as were the chorus 
and the measures of the lines. 

The songs of the chorus are often beautiful, as in this passage : 

" O Love ! Love ! from the eyes of thee 

Droppeth desire, and into the soul 
That thou conquerest leadest thou sweetness and charm ; 
Come not to me bringing sorrow or harm, 

And come not in dole, 
Nor with measureless passion o'ermaster thou me ! 

For neither the lightning fire 

Nor the bolts of the stars are dire 
As the dart hurled forth from the hand of Love, 

The son of God above. 

For vainly, vainly, and all in vain, 
Pile we to Phoebus the Pythian shrines ; 

Vainly by Alpheus heap victims on high ; 

Vain indeed are the prayers we cry, 
If no prayer divines 
That Love is the tyrant and master of men. 

Through every fate he errs, 

The keeper of bride chambers, 
Nor alike unto all, nor one only way, 

He comes to spoil and slay." 

It is impossible not to notice the tendency of the lyrical parts of the 
plays to become graceful ornaments rather than coherent parts of the 
construction. In modern times the growth of the opera after the 
decay of tragedy is perhaps a similar change. The end of the play is 
given in these lines : 

Hippolytus. 
O miserable mother ! Hateful birth ! 
May none I love spring from a lawless bond ! 

Theseus. 
Will ye not drag him hence, slaves ? Were ye deaf 
When long ago I spoke his exile out ? 

Hippolytus. 
Yet at his peril that lays hands on me. 
Thyself, if so thou wilt, shalt thrust me forth. 

Theseus. 
That will I, if thou art fixed to disobey ; 
No grief comes o'er my heart that thou must go. 

Hippolytus. 
'Tis settled, as it seems. Alas ! alas ! 
For what I know, I know not how to tell. 
O thou, Latona's daughter, dear to me 



39° EURIPIDES. 

Above the rest of heaven, in the hunt 

Companion, whom I took sweet counsel with ! 

O Artemis ! I must be banished now, 

From glorious Athens. But farewell, farewell, 

O city, and farewell, Erectheus' land. 

O plain of Troezen, what delights are thine 

To spend a happy youth in ! but farewell. 

For the last time behold I thee, that hearest 

For the last time my voice. Come, speak to me, 

Youths of my age and country ; send me hence 

With a kind word at parting ; for indeed 

You shall not look upon a purer man, 

Though thus I show not in my father's thoughts. 

Chorus. 

Greatly the care of the gods, when I think on it, lessens my grieving, 
But hide I a hope in the heart's depths of comprehending it then. 
I am utterly left at fault, in beholding the works and perceiving 
The fortunes of mortals ; for aimlessly change 
In a shifting confusion the lives of men, 
Far-wandering ever to range. 

Oh, would that Fate from the heavens would answer my calling upon her, 

Granting me joy with my lot and a spirit unsullied in pain, 

A judgment not strained too high, neither basely enstamped with dishonor 

For, easily changing the want of my ways 

To the need of the morrow, in peace would I fain 

Be happy the length of my days. 

But dim and amazed is my mind, the unlooked-for I see come to pass ; 

For, ah me ! I behold, I behold 

The clearliest burning star 

Of Hellas cast out by a father, alas ! 

In his anger, to exile afar ! 

O ye sands of the neighboring shores, where the water 

Breaks into foam ! Forest oaks spreading wide 

Where with swift-footed hounds he would rush on the slaughter, 

With Artemis aye at his side ! 

The yoke of Henetian foals in the car o'er the Limnan plain 

He shall urge never more, never more, 

The steeds held back by his foot ; 

And the song that was sleepless shall silent remain, 

In his home, 'neath the chords of the lute. 

And crownless, Dictynna, the glade is thou hauntest 

Deep in the forest, ungarlanded, lone. 

Hushed is the strife for his hand, and the contest 

Of maidens in marriage, for, lo ! he is gone. 

Epode. But thy sorrows the soul in me sadden ; 
And fatal the fate is I undergo 
In tears for thy sake and in pain. 
Thy son, O mother, is born in vain ! 

Woe! Woe! 
Against the gods I madden ! 
O graces ! O goddesses linked in one ! 
Why must the innocent exile go 

Cast out from the halls of his father, and forth from his kingdom thrown ? 
But lo ! of this man's followers I behold 
One reach the house with sorrow in his face. 



THE DEA TH OF HIP POL YTUS. 39 l 

Second Messenger. 

Turning my steps what way shall I o'ertake 
The King? Speak, ladies, is he in the halls? 

Chorus. 
Behold, he comes from out his palaces. 

Messenger. 
Theseus, I bear a history worth a thought 
To thee, to all Athenian citizens, 
And these that dwell in Troezen it regards. 

Theseus. 
Speak : is it any great calamity 
That falls upon the neighboring twain of states ? 

Messenger. 
The word is this : Hippolytus is no more, 
Though yet for a scale's turn looks he on the light. 

Theseus. 
Killed ? And who slew him ? Met him any man 
In hate, whose wife he, as his father's, wronged ? 

Messenger. 
His horses and his chariot were his death ; 
These, and the curses of thy mouth implored 
Of him that is thy sire and rules the seas. 

Theseus. 
O great Poseidon, how truly art my father 
That thus mine imprecation hast fulfilled ! 
How did he perish ? Speak : how did he die ? 
How did the snares of justice close him in ? 

Messenger. 
We servants, standing by the wave-met beach, 
Curried the horses weeping, since there came 
To us a messenger, who said, " No more 
Hippolytus shall set returning feet 
Upon our earth, being banished by the King." 
We wept ; and then himself approached and brought 
The same sad strain of tears. Close at his heels 
The myriad of his friends and fellow-youth 
Followed in thronging companies. At last 
He spoke, forsaking groaning : " O my soul, 
Why art thou thus disquieted in me ? 
My father's law must come to pass. O slaves, 
Yoke now the harnessed horses to the car. 
For me this city is no more ! " And then, 
Truly, each man was eager to obey. 
Swifter than speech we drew the horses up 
Caparisoned to his side. He seized the reins 
In both his hands from off the chariot-rail, 
Mounting all buskined as he was. But first 
He spoke to God with outstretched palms : " O Zeus, 
Let me not live if I be born so vile, 
And show my father, when I am dead least, 
If not while yet I look upon the light, 
How much he hath misused me ! " With the word 
He spurred at once both horses on, and we 
Ran by the reins, and followed him along 
The forthright Argive, Epidaurian way ; 



39 2 EURIPIDES. 



But as we brought into the desert place 

Our convoy — where there is a certain shore 

Beyond this country, sloping to the sea 

Saronic — thence arose a fearful voice 

We shuddered at to hear, so loud it boomed 

Like rumbling thunders of the nether Zeus. 

The steeds, with stiffened heads and ears pricked up, 

Listened, and on us crept a vehement fear 

Of whence the voice might come ; but, looking out 

Towards the shore that roared with waves, we saw 

A huge, unnatural billow, whose crest was fast 

In heaven, that took away the coasting rocks 

Of Sciron from our sight, and Isthmus hid, 

And Aesculapius' cliff. Then swelling high, 

Dashing much foam about in the sea's swirl, 

It neared the strand and towards the chariot moved. 

But as the breaker and flood of the huge third wave 

Burst on the beach, that billow sent us out 

A portent, ay, a fierce and monstrous bull ; 

And all the country, filled with its uproar, 

Voiced back the appalling sounds to us, whose eyes 

Refused to look upon our visible fear. 

Then on the horses came a mighty dread ; 

But he who mastered them, knowing well the ways 

And nature of the steed, seized on the reins, 

Pulling them as a sailor pulls the oar, 

Tightening the trace with stress of the backward thrown 

Body. But in their teeth the horses strained 

The bit, nor heeded urging from behind 

Of steering hand, nor rein, nor wheel. For when 

Our master drove them towards the softer ground 

The monster came in front to turn them back, 

Maddening the team with fright ; but towards the rocks 

Bore them their furious mettle, still so far 

He silently kept coming close behind, 

Until the chariot fell ; the horses reared 

And threw their driver out ; against the crags 

The felloe o' the wheel was dashed, and forth there flew 

The linch-pins and the axle-boxes up. 

All was confusion then. But he, alas ! 

Hippolytus, all tangled in the reins, 

Bound with indissoluble bonds, was dragged 

Along, his dear head dashed against the rocks, 

His body shattered ; and he cried aloud 

Most horribly, " Ye whom my mangers fed ! 

O my own horses ! stop ; nor blot me out 

Utterly from the world ! O fatal curse ! 

Ah ! who will save a man most innocent ? " 

But, fain at heart to help, our laggard feet 

Still left us far behind ; yet from the reins 

At last, I know not how, he loosed himself 

And fell, nor long his breath of life endures. 

With that the horses vanished, and no more 

We saw the monster in that craggy place. 

King, in thy palaces a slave from birth 

Am I, yet will I not be made to think 

That he, thy son, is evil. Let the race 

Of women all go hang and fill the pines 

Of Ida with their writing. He is pure. 



HIP POL YTUS DEFEXDED B Y ARTEMIS. 393 

Chorus. 

Now of new ills the grief is consummate. 
Fate and necessity may no man flee. 

Theseus. 
Through hatred of this man thy tale of woe 
Rejoiced me at the first ; but since the gods 
I fear, and since he was my son, no more 
Delight nor sorrow moves me for his pain. 

Messenger. 

But how to please thee then ? Must we convey 
His body here ? How use this anguished man ? 
Consider ; but if I might counsel thee, 
Thou wert not savage to a suffering son. 

Theseus. 
Go, bear him hither. Let mine eyes behold 
Him that denied his guilt ; for I with words 
And Heaven's judgment will confute him now. 

Chorus. 
Thou the unbending mind of the gods and of earthly ones bendest, 
Cypris, and where thou wendest 

He whose feathers are bright with a myriad changing dyes 
On nimblest pinion flies ; 

Over the earth and above the brine of the sounding sea 
Hovering flutters he. 
For Love with maddened heart enchants 
Whatever meets his glittering wings — 
The wild beast whelps in mountain haunts, 
The creatures in the waves, 
And on the earth the growing things 
That burning Helios looks to see, 
And man ; but these are all thy slaves, 
And subject, O Cypris, to thee. 

Artemis. 
Oh, sprung from a noble father, O son 
Of Aegeus, thee bid I hear. 
For I am the maid of Latona that speak! 
Theseus, unhappiest, wherefore to thee 
Is bloodshed and pain a delight ? 
For unjustly thy son is destroyed with the curse 
Of thee, an unnatural sire. 

For thy trust was put in the falsehood of Phaedra 
Regarding uncertain invisible things, 
But sure is thy ruin and plain. 

Oh, how dost not hide out of sight in the nethermost 
Chasm of torment and darkness in hell, 
Thy body, defiled as thou art ? 
Or why dost not take to thee wings and escape 
To a changed existence above, 
Withdrawing thy foot from the snare of these ills 
That here hast no lot with the good ? 

* * * * * * 

But hearken, Theseus, how thine evils stand, 
For, though it vantage nought, I will torment thee ; 
But to this end I came, to manifest 
The just mind of thy son, that he may die 
In honour, and of Phaedra's agonized love, 



394 EURIPIDES. 

That yet was, in some sort, a nobleness 

To witness. For that goddess most abhorred 

By us, whose pleasure is the virgin life, 

Goaded her on to passion for thy child. 

But while she strove to gain the victory 

Over desire by right, against her will 

The scheming nurse destroyed her, that betrayed 

Her secret to thy son, binding with oaths. 

He, as was just, would not obey nor hear 

Her words, nor yet, for all thy calumny, 

Took aught of obligation from his oath, 

Having an honourable nature. Then 

Thy wife, afraid a test might show her shame, 

Graved the false tablet that destroyed thy son 

With subtle guiles, and yet persuaded thee. 

Theseus. 
Woe's me ! 

Artemis. 
O Theseus, stings the speech ? Be still, 
That, all being heard, thou then mayest groan the more. 
Dost not remember how thy father gave thee 
Three curses, sure to slay ? O sinful man, 
One sent no foe destruction, but thy son ! 
The sea-god justly gave thee what was due 
According to his vow, but in my sight 
And his most base thou showest, for that thou 
Proof nor the voice of prophets didst not wait, 
And soughtest not inquiry, and no time 
Didst brood the thought, but swiftlier than was well 
Vented a curse against thy son, and slew him. 

Theseus. 

mistress, let me die ! 

Artemis. 

Mighty and dread 
Thy deeds ; and yet forgiveness may befall 
To even such. For Cypris willed these things 
To satisfy her heart. So runs the law 
For gods : what wills desiring deity 
No fellow-god would thwart, each stands aloof 
From crossing other's purpose evermore. 
Be sure that, stood I not in dread of Zeus, 

1 never would have come to such dishonour 
As leave to die the man more dear to me 
Than all the world beside. As for thy sin, 
The guilt is loosed because thou didst not know, 
Since in her death thy wife destroyed the proof 
Of questions, and through this beguiled thy mind. 
Now most upon thy head this storm is burst, 
But me, me too, it strikes. For at the death 

Of pious mortals gods do not rejoice, 

That crush the wicked and destroy their race. 

Chorus. 
Ah ! look where he cometh, a dying man, 
With tender body and auburn head 
Mangled and cruelly rent. 
Woe to the palaces, woe ! for a ban 



THE CROWXED HIPPOLYTUS 395 

Of double sorrow and twofold dread 
Upon us from heaven is sent. 

HIPPOLYTUS. 

Ah, ah ! I suffer ! I die ! 

Alas, me unhappy ! For thus was I torn 

By the unjust answer of God 

To the curse of a father unjust ! 

And spasms of anguish, ah ! beat in my brain, 

Swift agonies shoot through my head. 

Ah ! stop, for I faint ; let me rest. 

O team of my chariot, fed at my hand ! 

It is you that destroyed me, and you are my death, 

O hateful and terrible steeds ! 

Alas, me ! I pray you by Heaven, O slaves, 

Touch ye the wounds of my mangled flesh 

With tender and quiet hands. 

Zeus, dost behold ? for the servant of God, 

1 that am holy and chaste, 

Go down to a manifest hell under earth, 

Life unto me being lost ; 

And the work of goodness I wrought to mankind 

Is fruitless indeed, and as labour in vain. 

Alas ! alas ! 

For the anguish, the anguish is come on me now. 

Let me alone, slaves. Wilt thou not come, 

O healer, Death ? 

Destroy me, destroy me! I long for the sword 

Keen with a double edge, 

To cleave me asunder, to cut me in twain 

And put my life to sleep. 

O curse ! the sins of my forefathers now, 

The blood-guilt of my kin, 

Are burst from the bounds, nor delay on the course, 

But upon me — O wherefore ? — are come 

That am nowise the cause of the wrong. 

Ah ! what shall I say ? 

How set me free 

From living and suffering pain ? 

O black necessity, gate of night ! 

O Death, wouldst thou hush me to rest ! 

Artemis. 
O sufferer, truly art thou yoked with grief, 
Yet by thy nobleness of soul destroyed. 

HIPPOLYTUS. 

Ah ! ah ! 

O heavenly breath of fragrance, thee I feel 
Even in torment, and the pain is passed. 
The goddess Artemis is standing by. 

Artemis. 
She is, O sufferer, she, thy friend in heaven. 

HIPPOLYTUS. 

And dost thou, mistress, look upon my woes ? 

Artemis. 
Yet dare not shed the god-unlawful tear. 

HIPPOLYTUS. 

Thv huntsman and thv follower is no more. 



39 6 EURIPIDES. 

Artemis. 
No more, no more, yet dear to me in death. 

Hippolytus. 
Gone is thy horseman, guarder of thy shrines. 

Artemis. 
Ay, for unscrupulous Cypris schemed the plan. 

Hippolytus. 
Alas ! I know what god destroys me now. 

Artemis. 
Thou, being chaste, wert odious to her fame. 

Hippolytus. 
One Cypris, as it seems, destroys us three. 

Artemis. 
Thy father, thee, and — for the third — his wife. 

Hippolytus. 
Wherefore I also mourn my father's fate. 

Artemis. 
The goddess blinded him with her deceits, 

Hippolytus. 
Father, how art thou wretched in this grief ! 

Theseus. 
I perish, son ; I have no joy in life. 

Hippolytus. 
Such bitter gifts thy sire the sea-god granted ! 

Theseus. 
Would that the prayer had died within my throat ! 

Hippolytus. 
But why ? Thou wouldst have slain me in thy rage. 

Theseus. 
For Heaven willed my judgment's overthrow. 

Hippolytus. 
Ah ! were man's curse on Heaven but as strong ! 

Artemis. 
Hush ! for not even in the shadowy world 
Hereunder shall the shafts of Cypris' rage 
Be hurled against thy body unrevenged, 
Because thy holiness was not in vain, 
Nor vain thy lofty thought ; but whoso breathes 
Most dear to her shall fall, by might of these 
Inevitable arrows of my hand, 

Slaughtered in vengeance for thy death. But thou 
Shall have immortal recompense for pain. 
Great are the honours I will give thee here 
In this Troezenian city, and for thee 
Unmarried girls before their wedding day 
Shall shear their yellow tresses ; thou shalt reap 
For many an age the harvest of their tears, 
And evermore thy memory shall remain, 
And make a music in their maiden mouths 
For ever, nor shall silence hold unsaid 
The love that Phaedra bore thee. But, O king, 



THE CRCU'XED HIPPOLYTCS. 597 

son of Aegeus, take within thine arms 
Thy child and clasp him to thee, since I know 
Thou didst not willingly visit him with death, 
And it is natural that men should err 

When so the immortals order. And forgive 
Thy sire, Hippolytus. Thy death was fate, 
And this thou knowest. But farewell, farewell ; 

1 may not look upon thy life's decay, 

The dying gasps of men were my pollution ; 
And no more distant I behold thine end. 

Hippolytus. 
Farewell even thou, blest virgin, and depart. 
But lightly a long friendship dost thou leave. 
Yet for thy sake I loose from all reproach 
My father; for indeed since long ago 
Thy words have been my rule of life. Ah, me ! 
The air grows black before my sight already. 
Father, take me, lift me, lift me up. 

Theseus. 
Thy blessing, son : how dost thou wring my heart. 

Hippolytus. 
I die; and see indeed the gates of hell. 

Theseus. 
And wilt thou leave my soul defiled with blood ? 

Hippolytus. 
No, from this guilt and bloodshed thou art freed. 

Theseus. 
How sayest thou, my soul is loosed from sin ? 

Hippolytus. 
Artemis, witness, wielder of the bow. 

Theseus. 
O best beloved, how noble art thou shown ! 

Hippolytus. 
Farewell thou also ; take my last farewell. 

Theseus. 
Woe's me, to lose a son so dear and brave ! 

Hippolytus. 
Pray that thy lawful sons may prove as much. 
Theseus. 

son, forsake me not for death. Take heart. 

Hippolytus. 

1 have done with taking heart, father. I die ; 
Cover my face and swiftly with the robe. 

Theseus. 
O Athens' famous frontiers, Pallas' earth, 
How shall ye mourn this man ! Alas ! alas ! 
Cypris, of thy revenge how many things 
Shall keep the memory present in my breast ! 

Chorus. 
Common this sorrow to all in the city 
Comes, an unlooked-for guest, 
Of many the tears shall gush out in their pity, 
And many shall beat the breast. 
For the grief of the great there are many to wail, 
And long shall the fame of their sorrow prevail. 



CHAPTER V.— EURIPIDES 11. —Continued. 

I. — The Alcestis of Euripides — His Humanity Offensive to his Contemporaries — The 
Andromache ; the Conversational Duels. II. — The Suppliants ; The Heracleidse ; 
Their Political Allusions — The Helen, with its Romantic Interest in Place of the 
Earlier Solemnity, and its Enforcement of Unheroic Misfortune — Its Lack of the 
Modern Dramatic Spirit. III. — The Troades, a Curious Treatment of the Old 
Myths — The Mad Heracles; its Representation of the Gods in Accordance with 
the New Spirit — The Electra; its Importance as a Bit of Literary Controversy — 
Its Inferiority to the Plays of ^Eschylus and Sophocles on the Same Subject — The 
Ion ; a Drama, not a Tragedy, and a Marked Specimen of the Change in 
Thought — A Comparison between its Complexity and the Earlier Simplicity — 
Condemnation of the Old Mythology. IV. — The Two Iphigeneias — The deus ex 
tnachina. V. — The Bacchas, and its Importance in the Study of Greek Re- 
ligious Thought — The Feeling of Euripides for Natural Scenery ; his Modern 
Spirit — The Satyric Play, the Cyclops — The Rhesus. VI. The Successors of 
Euripides — The Extended Influence of the Greek Drama, and Especially of 
Euripides as the Most Modern of the Ancients. 

I. 

THE Alcestis is the earliest play of Euripides that has come down to 
us, it having been brought out in 438 B.C. Only comparatively 
recently has it been discovered that it was the fourth play of a tetralogy 
which secured the second prize, the first falling to Sophocles; and the 
fact of its thus standing at the end of a series of four explains much 
that would otherwise continue to embarrass critics, for it evidently pos- 
sessed some of the qualities of the final satyric piece, with its semi- 
comic lines and its happy ending. Possibly this combination of trag- 
edy and comedy was a novel invention of this author, and it was 
certainly one that has borne rich fruit in later times. 

The play represents the self-sacrifice of Alcestis, the wife of Adme- 
tus. Admetus had angered Artemis by his marriage, and thus been 
doomed to die, but Apollo, who had served him and found him a kind 
master, succeeded in persuading the goddesses of fate to accept a sub- 
stitute, if any of his family could be induced to die in his stead. 
Neither his father nor mother, however, was willing to perish for 
him, but Alcestis, his loving wife, consents. 

Those who have seen in Euripides a mere despiser of women 
have shown a lofty disregard for a good part of the evidence from 
which to form a judgment, for he drew good as well as evil 
women, as this play shows, and moralists have asserted that 



HUMANITY OF EURIPIDES— OFFEXDS COXSERVATIVES. 



399 



they have seen both kinds in life. In the Hecuba the chorus of 
women asserts that some women are envied for their virtues, while 
others may be classed among bad things. Doubtless what most 
troubled the contemporaries of Euripides was simply the fact that 
he drew women as they were, good or bad, instead of more or 
less abstract embodiments of heroic passions such as we find in the 
work of his predecessors. It was the humanity of Euripides that 
offended his conservative contemporaries ; they felt for his changes the 
same repugnance that many people now feel for novels about heroes 
and heroines who have no heroic qualities, who are like people across 




the doom of admetus. {Wall Painting — Hercula?i<zum.') 



the street and totally devoid of the impossible incrustation of fault- 
less beauty, unfailing enthusiasm, and every human virtue. Such 
critics demand something greater and, as they think, finer than life can 
furnish, and the opposition to Euripides was due to a similar feeling. 

It is not easy to see, however, what heroism is greater than that 
which Alcestis here displays : a queen, a mother, a wife, loving and 
loved, she abandons every thing that makes life sweet from pure un- 
selfishness. And with what art Euripides portrays the bitterness of 
her sacrifice ! A slave comes forth in tears and describes her mis- 
tress's farewell to the home where she and been so happy. 



4oo 



EURIPIDES. 




" As soon as Alcestis per- 
ceived that the fatal moment 
was drawing nigh, she bathed 
her fair body in the pure 
water of the stream, and ar- 
rayed herself in the rich 
robes that she took from the 
cedar chests, and then turn- 
ing to the hearth, she prayed 
to the protecting deity: 'O 
sovereign goddess ! now that 
I am ready to descend to the 
shades, I lay myself at your 
feet for the last time. Be a 
mother to my children. 
Grant to the boy a loving 
wife, to the girl a worthy 
husband. Let them not die, 
like their mother, an untime- 
ly death, but let them, hap- 
pier than she, live out the 
full measure of their days in 
their native land. ' ' The 
slave goes on to recount the 
sad parting of Alcestis with 
her own room. " Meanwhile 
her children kept clutching 
her dress and weeping ; she 
took them in her arms, kiss- 
ing them in turn, as about 
to die. All the slaves were 
wandering here and there in 
the palace, lamenting the 
fate of their mistress ; she 
offered her hand to every 
one, and there was none so 
poor to whom she did not 
speak and bid farewell." 

This last is a touch of 
pathos that with all the rest 
brings down the scene from 
fairyland to every-day life 
after a fashion that can not 



BROUXLXG'S REXDERIXG OF THE FAREWELL OF ALCESTLS. 401 

be said to mar it. This piteous bit of kindliness simply shows us the 
woman in all her thoughtful gentleness, and can art do more than that ? 
The same effect is produced when Alcestis herself appears upon the 
stage, and controls herself for parting from her husband, a passage that 
is thus rendered by Browning in his " Balaustion's Adventure ": 

" Admetos, — how things go with me thou seest, — 
I wish to tell thee, ere I die, what things 
I will should follow. I — to honor thee, 
Secure for thee, by my own soul's exchange, 
Continued looking on the daylight here — 
Die for thee — yet, if so I pleased, might live. 
Nay, wed what man of Thessaly I would, 
And dwell i' the dome with pomp and queenliness. 
I would not, — would not live bereft of thee, 
With children orphaned, neither shrank at all, 
Though having gifts of youth wherein I joyed. 
Yet, who begot thee and who gave thee birth, 
Both of these gave thee up ; for all, a term 
Of life was reached when death became them well, 
Ay, well — to save their child and glorious die : 
Since thou wast all they had, nor hope remained 
Of having other children in thy place. 
So, I and thou had lived out our full time, 
Nor thou, left lonely of thy wife, wouldst groan 
With children reared in orphanage : but thus 
Some god disposed things, willed they so should be. 
Be they so ! Now do thou remember this, 
Do me in turn a favor, — favor, since 
Certainly I shall never claim my due, 
For nothing is more precious than a life : 
But a fit favor, as thyself wilt say, 
Loving our children here no less than I, 
If head and heart be sound in thee at least. 
Uphold them, make them masters of my house, 
Nor wed and give a step-dame to the pair, 
Who, being a worse wife than I, thro' spite 
Will raise her hand against both thine and mine. 
Never do this at least, I pray to thee ! 
For hostile the new-comer, the step-dame, 
To the old brood — a very viper she 
For gentleness ! Here stand they, boy and girl ; 
The boy has got a father, a defense 
Tower-like he speaks to and has answer from : 
But thou, my girl, how will thy virginhood 
Conclude itself in marriage fittingly ? 
Upon what sort of sire-found yoke-fellow 
Art thou to chance ? with all to apprehend — 
Lest, casting on thee some unkind report, 
She blast thy nuptials in the bloom of youth. 
For neither shall thy mother watch the'e wed, 
Nor hearten thee in childbirth, standing by 
Just when a mother's presence helps thee most ! 
No, for I have to die : and this my ill 
Comes to me, nor to-morrow, no, nor vet 
The third day of the month, but now, even now, 
I shall be reckoned among those no more. 
Farewell, be happy ! And to thee, indeed, 



4° 2 EURIPIDES. 

Husband, the boast remains permissible 
Thou hadst a wife was worthy ! and to you, 
Children, as good a mother gave you birth." 

The touches which appeal to every mother's heart are those that 
Euripides introduced into the tragedy, borrowing his language, as 
Aristotle has said in speaking of the changes that he wrought, from 
common life and every-day talk. It was not a mere coincidence that 
at the same time Socrates was bringing down philosophy from the 
heavens to live among men. 

Then follows the pathetic parting between Alcestis and her family, 
and the mourning of the chorus. Therewith ends the first part of the 
tragedy. The second part begins with the entrance of Heracles, who 
finds Admetus upbraiding his father for his reluctance to die when so 
few years could be left for him at the best. The god, when he finds 
in what trouble the family is, goes down to the lower regions and 
brings back the veiled Alcestis, whom he intrusts to the care of 
Admetus, pretending that she is a prize he has just won at wrestling. 
Gradually Admetus discovers the true state of affairs, and all ends 
well with the reunited family. The happy termination thus made, the 
play was well suited to take the place of the extravagant jollity of the 
customary satyric play. It had an adverse effect, however, in cutting 
it out from the list of tragedies, which was taken to mean those plays 
that ended sadly. If we do not accept that definition, we need not 
accept the exclusion, but, whatever it is called, the play contains 
pathos and gloom enough to earn the name. The latter part relieves 
it ; but certainly makes no one forget the qualities just described. 

The Andromache is not one of the most striking of the plays of 
Euripides. It describes the sufferings of the heroine after the fall of 
Troy, when, in the division of spoils, she falls to the lot of Neop- 
tolemus, who was already married to Hermione. Hermione was 
childless, and jealous of Andromache and the son she had borne to her 
new husband. In the absence of Neoptolemus, who had gone to con- 
sult the Delphian oracle, the unhappy Trojan woman is exposed to the 
ill-treatment of her rival, who accuses her of employing unholy arts to 
prevent her bearing a child. Hermione, in her wrath, wishes to take 
vengeance on Andromache and her son, Molottus, with the aid of her 
father, Menelaus, but Peleus interferes, and Menelaus withdraws, 
leaving Hermione in despair. Then Orestes arrives ; he had been in 
old times a lover of Hermione, and he now claims her hand, which she 
grants him on receiving his assurances that he will dispose of her 
husband. This was not an idle assertion, for the messenger appears 
to announce the violent death of Neoptolemus. Peleus mourns 
this turn of events, but Thetis consoles him by promising him immor- 



THE DI SPUTA TIVE ELEMENT IN EURIPIDES' PLA VS. 4° 3 

tality and bids Andromache and her son to be sent to the Molonian 
land. 

Obviously it would be a carping critic who should complain that 
this play lacked incident. Indeed, it shows very clearly how far 
Euripides broke the old rules of tragedy, and instead of uniting with 
a single aim, to bring out one great emotion, accumulated incoherent 
actions that should give him continual opportunities for the develop- 
ment of novel and unexpected turns of passion. It was these that 
tempted him ; it was heart-wringing incidents that he cared for, so far 
as they presented occasion for subtle argument and disquisition. The 
old narrative and lyrical forms of tragedy faded away before the dis- 
putative, which was full of reproach, appeal, and denunciation. This 
quality had, to be sure, always existed in the earlier plays, but he 
developed it abundantly, sacrificing the unity of the tragedy to the 
perpetual excitement of the emotions. His plays became intellectual 
and passionate duels; the incidents being mere pretexts for eloquence. 
The Andromache, though not impressive by reason of its discordant 
composition, is yet full of tender and striking touches. It has another 
interest to the student in the fact that it contains many political 
allusions, and that Sparta is frequently spoken of with great bitterness. 
Hence the conclusion is formed that it was written during one of the 
truces in the Peloponnesian war. The play was composed for the 
Argive stage, and here any abuse of Sparta was very welcome. 

II. 

The Suppliants, which was brought out in 420, not only contains 
incidental political references, but is throughout a sort of political 
pamphlet in which Athens is praised and the gratitude of Argos is 
invoked. The ancients themselves called the play an encomium of 
Athens, and with good reason, for it referred to a part of its mytho- 
logical past that its orators never let be forgotten. The Seven against 
Thebes, it will be remembered, ended with the denial of the rites of 
burial to the heroes who had fallen in their attack upon the city. 
This play opens with the appearance of Adrastus and the mothers of 
the heroes as suppliants for the interference of the Athenians. Aethra, 
the mother of Theseus, interests herself in their success, and summons 
her son to listen to them. His sympathy is soon won, and he is pre- 
paring to send a messenger to Thebes, when a herald from that city 
appears, who demands that the suppliants be at once expelled from 
Attica. This at once arouses Theseus, and he declares war against 
Thebes, and soon a messenger arrives with tidings of his victory. The- 
seus returns with the corpses of the Argive leaders, who are buried at 



4°4 EURIPIDES. 

Eleusis. This simple plot is further employed to carry an earnest 
defense of democracy, and the action is complicated by romantic 
details, yet these are no less prominent than elsewhere in the work of 
Euripides, and in parts one may feel a breath of the old ^Eschylean 
simplicity. Yet this impression is at the best only momentary. 




hercules — torso (Belvidere.) 
(Work of Apollonius of Athens. Example of the sculpture of the Attic Renaissance.) 

Very similar in construction is the Heraclidae, which was written 
probably at about the same time as the Suppliants, and with a similar 
intent of praising Athens. This time, however, the Argives came in 
for denunciation, and the poet spoke out plainly the old hostility be- 



POLITICAL INTENT OF THE HERACLID^E. 405 

tween Attica and the Peloponnesus. According to the old tradition, 
the sons of Heracles came to Athens, after being driven out from 
every other part of Greece, and sought protection at the altars of the 
gods. When Erystheus, the King of Argos, demanded their expul- 
sion and tried to have them removed, the Athenian king Demophoon 
forbade it, although the Argive herald threatened war. The oracles 
promised victory to the Athenian king if he would sacrifice to Perse- 
phone a noble Athenian virgin. This filled his heart with heaviness, 
but Macaria, one of the daughters of Heracles, offered herself as a vic- 
tim, so that the Athenians went out to battle full of confidence, and 
were victorious over the Argives, whose king they made captive. 
Undoubtedly the dimly-veiled political lessons that were conveyed to 
the contemporaries of Euripides by this representation of the legend- 
ary hostility between the two great geographical divisions of Greece 
outweighed the literary merits of this play. The passage in which 
Macaria offers herself for sacrifice is a bit of pathos such as Euripides 
was fond of employing, but even this is left incomplete, although, of 
course, the text may have come down to us in a fragmentary state. 
The play does not contradict the general assertion that a tragedy 
written for political effect will necessarily lose a good measure of 
literary interest. Yet it throws much light on the anxiety of the 
Athenians with regard to the Peloponnesian war. The design of 
Euripides was to cheer his fellow-citizens, and to console them with a 
vivid illustration of old oracles that promised them divine protection. 
The Helen, which was brought out with the Andromeda in 41 2 B.C., is 
a noteworthy play as an example of the variety that its author employed 
in the handling of Greek myths. We have already seen how he modi- 
fied the direct effect of tragedy by the introduction of pathetic 
scenes and incidents ; here we find him substituting the drama for 
the tragedy, introducing romantic interest in the place of the older 
solemnity and simplicity. The Philoctetes of Sophocles represents a 
great change from the solemn grandeur of ^Eschylus ; this play is 
quite as far removed from the Philoctetes as is that play from the 
work of the first of the great tragedians. The change was very great, 
and it is easy to understand how shocked some of the public must 
have been at the way in which Euripides handled the theatrical 
machinery. This play depends for its plot on the story already men- 
tioned by Stesichorus, that it was not the real Helen who went to 
Troy with Paris, but, instead, a counterfeit likeness, while she was 
transported to Egypt. Thus Euripides did not invent this part of the 
story, and the ancient dramatists seem to have been as slack in invent- 
ing plots as their modern successors: it is in the treatment of the 
plots that they differ from other people. Herodotus had also men- 



4° 6 EURIPIDES. 

tioned another version of the myth, according to which, Paris on his 
way to Troy with the wife of Menelaus was driven by inclement 
weather to one of the mouths of the Nile, and thence was carried to 
Memphis, where Proteus, the Egyptian king, denounced his crime,and, 
retaining Helen, sent him off. When the Greeks besieged Troy, the 
Trojans were not able to return Helen, and of course the Greeks could 
not believe the reasons that were assigned, but imagined them inven- 
tions. After the war Menelaus on his way home landed at Egypt, 
when Proteus returned his wife to him. Euripides made use of a part 
of this story in his play. The scene is Egypt and the play opens with 
Helen's long speech, as prologue, about the condition of things. She 
mentions the phantom that went to Troy, and laments that the son 
of the dead Proteus is anxious to marry her. It is a curious fact 
that she mentions her alleged descent from Zeus with scepticism. And 
if Helen, his own daughter, doubted it, who need believe it ? the 
spectators may have asked. Suddenly Teucer, one of the Greek 
heroes, appears, and Helen soon gathers from his evident hatred of her 
in what estimation she is held by the Greeks. He tells her that her 
mother has killed herself for shame at Helen's misdeeds, and that 
her brothers, Castor and Polydeuces, or, as the Romans called him, Pol- 
lux, have come to the same end. She hears of the sufferings of the 
heroes on their return and the rumors of the death of Menelaus. Her 
despair is expressed to the chorus of Greek girls, who are full of sym- 
pathy. She enters the house to learn what she can of the fate of 
Menelaus at the very moment when that hero reaches the shore where 
his ship has been wrecked. He is in dire distress, and Euripides, after 
his fashion, draws a pitiful picture of his misery and squalor. This was 
but part of his general treatment of the drama, whereby what had 
been abstract personifications of more or less majestic qualities became 
simple men and women who aroused sympathy by their intelligible 
human sufferings. In this play Menelaus is in rags, and when he 
knocks at the door of a house he is answered rudely by an old slave 
woman, who knows the fate that threatens all Greeks. His surprise is 
great when he hears that Helen is there ; the story is absolutely inex- 
plicable. Helen returns with the chorus, and the husband and wife 
are thus brought face to face. He comes forward as a suppliant, 
probably with a bowed head, and then in a moment they recognize 
each other. Helen possesses the key of the mystery, but Menelaus is 
naturally puzzled between this unexpected appearance of his wife and 
his confidence in the whole history of his life for many years, and he is 
about to withdraw, when a messenger arrives to tell him that his wife, 
a Trojan captive, whom he had left in a cave on the shore with his 
companions, had vanished into thin air, uttering words that removed 



NEW DRAMATIC SPIRIT UNDER THE OID FORMS. 407 

all doubt. Helen is thus restored, unstained, to the love of 
Menelaus. 

The rest of the play, nearly a thousand lines, is taken up with the 
planning and execution of an ingenious device to outwit the Egyptian 
king and to reach home. Helen tells him that her husband has been 
wrecked here, and that his dead body has been cast ashore. She says 
that it is the custom of the Greeks to place such corpses on ships and 
to set them sailing away with the body and offerings to the sea-gods. 
When they have received permission from the king to do this, all is 
settled, and they put it into accomplishment. When the king, learns 
how he has been deceived he is furious with his sister who has lent 
herself to the plot, but his wrath is stayed by the Dioscuri, Castor and 
Polydeuces, who affirm that all has happened according to the will of 
the gods. 

The modern reader notices the extreme care that is taken to prevent 
the occurrence of any incident that has not already been announced 
and thoroughly described beforehand, a fact which shows the effort of 
the writer to make most prominent his treatment of the theme. What 
we understand by the dramatic movement was not allowed to out- 
weigh the merit of the execution. The dramatist was given the 
freedom of choice among a number of subjects of a similar kind, and 
these he had to treat in a more or less conventional way, his method 
being the striking quality ; just as the Italian painters were free to 
paint any subject that they could find in religious history, and every- 
thing depended on the painter's skill. Yet, as, after all, the leading 
figure in, say the scene at Gethsemane, was a man in a garden, the 
truth of the delineation of Euripides is only determined by the test 
of comparison with human life. Or, if we take the comparison fre- 
quently made between this side of the Greek tragedy and the modern 
opera, we shall notice how much more important in them both is the 
lyrical, musical, narrative, or disputative treatment than the dramatic 
movement which we demand on the stage. Yet, in the Philoctetes of 
Sophocles, a good part of the interest lies in the uncertainty of the 
spectator as to whether Neoptolemus was to relent or to persist in his 
harshness ; and, in fact, all of his plays that have come down to us are 
marked by careful construction. This quality disappears in Euripides, 
who trusts rather to vividness of momentary effect. In modern and 
very modern poetry we see writers in the same way placing confidence 
in lines and passages with no inspiring message to deliver to the world. 

In this play Euripides shows his usual skill and masterly execution. 
The chorus sings in graceful verses the escape of Helen and her arrival 
at home, and the action is brisk. It is easy to see how great was the 
influence of Euripides on the later comedy. It was only in the form 



408 EURIPIDES. 

that he clung to the old tragedy. The spirit was active that was in 
time to abandon the paths that ^Eschylus and Sophocles had made 
their own, but the facility of his workmanship rendered him content 
with the old forms. The modifications that Euripides introduced have 
been the object of severe denunciations from those who fancy that 
literature, having once found a good method, should always preserve 
it ; in other words, that the expression of thought should be above all 
things artificial ; and the Helen, with its happy ending, has been the 
especial recipient of this wrath. Yet, one of its characters, Theonoe, 
is very nearly the most delicately drawn of all those into whom Euri- 
pides has breathed a quality of resemblance to life and a subtle per- 
sonality which are most fascinating. She knows the minds of the 
gods, that Here and Aphrodite are at variance with regard to the 
issue of the adventure, and she holds the decision in her own hands : 
if she tells her brother, the amorous king of Egypt, that Menelaus and 
Helen are there, she will bring them to ruin, and by her silence she 
can save them. The prayers of Helen and her husband are most 
earnest. Helen says, " If you who are a prophetess, and believe that 
the gods exist, shall subvert your father's just deeds and aid your 
unjust brother, it is disgraceful that you should know all about what 
is divine and what is not, and should yet not know what is just." Can 
we not see why the spectators liked Euripides, even if critics said then 
what is still echoed, that he was corrupting the stage with novelties? 
Menelaus is even more urgent, and he begins by asserting that he 
could not fall at her knees or shed tears, because that would be weak- 
ness unbecoming a Trojan hero. This is a whiff of modern feeling, 
although too often men have formed an inexact notion of the readiness 
of the Greeks to shed tears, from the lines of Homer, and have extended 
the alleged habit to all of that race without discrimination of time. 
This, as well as other passages which might be quoted, may show that 
what was apparently common enough in the heroic age, had disap- 
peared in later days before the spread of civilization. And in the 
representation that Euripides gives of the mythical heroes, he did not 
find it necessary to go back to the old portrayal of their qualities ; he 
rather brought them down to the condition of people in his own time. 
The rags and tatters in which he arrayed them, as is the case with 
Menelaus in this play, while it aroused the scorn of Aristophanes, 
brought vividly before the spectators a familiar condition of suffering. 
This, as has been often insisted on, is the most essential part of his 
treatment of tragedy. 

Indeed, positive proof of the change among the Greeks in respect of 
lachrymosity may be found in Plato's Republic, X. 605, where, after 
speaking of the long lamentations usual in the tragedies, where are 



PATHOS AND ELOQUENCE IN EURIPIDES. 409 

" persons engaged in beating their breasts and bemoaning themselves 
in song/' Socrates goes on : " but, on the other hand, whenever sorrow 
comes home to one of us, you are aware that we pride ourselves upon 
the opposite conduct ; that is, we glory in being able to endure with 
calmness, because in our estimation this behavior is manly, while the 
other is womanish." Yet, Menelaus goes on, " they say it is the part 
of an honorable man to shed tears in misfortunes, but not even this 
will I prefer to courage." And so he begins to entreat her earnestly 
and courageously, and with perfect success. It is easy to perceive 
that Euripides introduced some of his changes in the drama with a 
clumsiness that presents a striking contrast with the smoothness which 
the older forms had acquired, but he atoned for this by his skill when 
the characters were fairly before him, and at times, as we shall see, he 
modelled his plays without what seems to us awkwardness. 

III. 

Too often, however, we are disposed to call awkwardness merely 
what differs from our own notions, and since what we have been taught 
to expect in a play is a rounded completeness, we are prone to forget 
that what Euripides tried to offer and his audience expected to 
receive was abundant opportunity for eloquence. Any means that 
aided this object could not fail to be satisfactory. In the Troades 
(415 B.C.) the action is nothing: the play is a succession of pathetic 
scenes that deal with the final misery of that captured town, and one 
striking thing is the attempt to show how noble was Troy even in its 
fall, and how dearly bought was the Grecian victory. The Greeks, as 
Cassandra says in the play, lost innumerable men, and gave up all that 
made life sweet in behalf of a woman who was carried away by her 
own consent and not by violence. They died, not in exile, and those 
whom Ares slew saw not their children, nor were they prepared for 
the tomb by the hands of a wife, but they lie in a strange land. The 
Trojans, however, won the fairest renown, inasmuch as they died for 
their country ; those who were slain in battle were buried with all the 
usual rites, honored by the attentions of their friends and relatives. 
And those who had been spared continued to live with their wives 
and children, a joy denied the Greeks. 

No occasion is lost to show how much ruin success brought upon 
the Greeks ; nor are the Trojan woes forgotten. The sufferings of the 
captured women who are divided as slaves among the Greek generals 
are made most vivid. Indeed, nothing is spared : Cassandra falls into 
the hands of Agamemnon ; Polyxena is destined for an offering on the 
grave of Achilles ; Hecuba is assigned to Odysseus ; Andromache to 



4 IQ EURIPIDES. 

Neoptolemus ; and the young Astyanax is snatched from his mother 
to be flung from the walls. These separate incidents are not enough : 
Helen and Hecuba quarrel in the presence of Menelaus, who seems to 
condemn yet is evidently in his heart ready to forgive his faithless 
wife, and finally the captive women are led forth wailing, while Troy 
sinks in flames. Such are the woes that form this tragedy. It was 
written ten years after the Hecuba, which seems almost to be a con- 
tinuation of it, and the Andromache, it will be remembered, treats the 
same events. 

The Mad Heracles is full of tragic horror. It contains two separate 
actions, woven, however, into a single play wherein the promised 
peaceful solution is suddenly changed into the blackest tragedy. The 
scene is laid in Thebes, before the temple of Zeus. Lycus has seized 
the throne during the absence of Heracles, who is ordered by Eurys- 
theus to fetch Cerberus from the lower world, and has determined to 
put to death Megara, the wife of Heracles, and her children. Just at 
the fatal moment Heracles returns, and prepares to take vengeance on 
the tyrant. Suddenly, however, his plans are frustrated by an attack 
of madness : he fancies that he is at Mycenae, and mistaking his own 
family for that of Eurystheus he kills them all. This delusion is sent 
upon him by Here, and Pallas Athene rids him from it. His remorse 
when he has recovered his senses is most acute ; he wishes to kill him- 
self, but Theseus, whom he had brought back with him from the lower 
regions, manages to console him, and he determines to accompany 
Theseus to Athens and there to atone for his deeds by sacrifices. For- 
tunately there is in English Mr. Browning's excellent translation of 
this play, to which the reader can be referred. Here is a song of the 
chorus, who lament their age and infirmity : 



Youth is a pleasant burthen to me ; 

But age on my head, more heavily 

Than the crags of Aetna, weighs and weighs, 

And darkening cloaks the lids and intercepts the rays. 

Never be mine the preference 

Of an Asian empire's wealth, nor yet 

Of a house all gold, to youth, to youth 

That's beauty, whatever the gods dispense ! 

Whether in wealth we joy, or fret 

Paupers, — of all God's gifts most beautiful, in truth ! 



But miserable murderous age I hate ! 
Let it go to wreck, the waves adown, 
Nor ever by rights plague tower or town 
Where mortals bide, but still elate 
With wings, on ether, precipitate, 
Wander them round — nor wait ! 



THE MAD HERACLES.— EXTRACTS. 411 

" But if the gods, to man's degree, 
Had wit and wisdom, they would bring 
Mankind a twofold youth, to be 
Their virtue's sign-mark, all should see, 
In those with whom life's winter thus grew spring. 
For when they died, into the sun once more 
Would they have traversed twice life's racecourse o'er ; 
While ignobility had simply run 
Existence through, nor second life begun. 

" And so might we discern both bad and good 
As surely as the starry multitude 
Is numbered by the sailors, one and one. 
But now the gods by no apparent line 
Limit the worthy and the base define; 
Only, a certain period rounds, and so 
Brings man more wealth, — but youthful vigor, no ! " 

The pathetic scene when Heracles awakes from a slumber, after 
murdering his wife and children, is most impressive. He had been 
fastened to a column as he sunk in a swoon, and his first words are : 

" Hah — 
In breath indeed I am — see things I ought — 
^Ether, and earth, and these the sunbeam-shafts ! 
But then — some billow and strange whirl of sense 
I have fallen into ! and breathings hot I breathe — 
Smoked upwards, not the steady work from lungs. 
See now ! Why bound — at moorings like a ship — 
About my young breast and young arm, to this 
Stone piece of carved work broke in half, do I 
Sit, have my rest in corpses' neighborhood ? 
Strewn on the ground are winged darts, and bow 
Which played my brother-shieldman, held in hand, — 
Guarded my side, and got my guardianship ! 
I can not have gone back to Haides — twice 
Begun Eurustheus' race I ended thence ? 
But I nor see the Sisupheian stone, 
Nor Plouton, nor Demeter's sceptred maid ! 
I am struck witless sure ! Where can I be ? 
Ho then ! what friend of mine is near or far — 
Some one to cure me of bewilderment ? 
For naught familiar do I recognize. - ' 

Then the hero's father comes up to him and explains the condition 
of things slowly, reluctantly, as if fearing still for his son's reason, who 
presses on unsuspecting and is at last overwhelmed on learning all 
that he has done. When he bids farewell to his father and is about to 
start away with Theseus, his words are most impressive. In the first 
place, Euripides put into the mouth of Heracles most serious doubts 
about the gods. He says that he can not believe they are so adul- 
terous as they are reputed to be, 

" Nor, that with chains they bind each other's hands, 
Have I judged worthy faith, at any time ; 
Nor shall I be persuaded — one is born 



412 EURIPIDES. 

His fellows' master! since God stands in need — 
If he is really God — of nought at all. 
These are the poets' pitiful conceits ! " 

Probably these bold expressions of Euripides could only be placed 
in the mouth of a son of Zeus ; the poet left for himself the defense 
that he was merely making a dramatic use of a god's grumbling, while 
in fact he was making a serious attack on the whole Greek mythology. 
Heracles thus goes on : 

" But this it was I pondered, though woe-whelmed — 
' Take heed lest thou be taxed with cowardice 

Somehow in leaving thus the light of day ! ' 

For whoso cannot make a stand against 

These same misfortunes, neither could withstand 

A mere man's dart, oppose death, strength to strength. 

Therefore unto thy city I will go " 

(He is speaking to Theseus and means Athens). 

" And have the grace of thy ten thousand gifts. 
There ! I have tasted of ten thousand toils 
As truly — never waived a single one, 
Nor let these runnings drop from out my eyes ! 
Nor ever thought it would have come to this — 
That I from out my eyes do drop tears ! Well ! 
At present, as it seems, one bows to fate. 
So be it ! Old man, thou seest my exile — 
Seest, too, me — my children's murderer ! 
These give thou to the tomb, and deck the dead, 
Doing them honor with thy tears — since me 
Law does not sanction ! Propping on her breast, 
And giving them into their mother's arms, 
— Reinstitute the sad community 
Which I, unhappy, brought to nothingness — 
Not by my will ! And, when earth hides the dead, 
Live in this city ! — sad, but, all the same, 
Force thy soul to bear woe along with me ! 
O children — who begat and gave you birth — 
Your father, has destroyed you ! nought you gain 
By those fair deeds of mine I laid you up, 
As by main-force I labored glory out 
To give you — that fine gift of fatherhood ! 
And thee, too, O my poor one, I destroyed, 
Not rendering like for like, as when thou kept'st 
My marriage-bed inviolate, — those long 
Household-seclusions draining to the dregs 
Inside my house ! O me, my wife, my boys — 
And, O myself, how, miserably moved, 
Am I disyoked now from both boys and wife ! 
O bitter those delights of kisses now — 
And bitter these my weapons' fellowship ! 
For I am doubtful whether shall I keep 
Or cast away these arrows which will clang 
Ever such words out, as they knock my side — 
' Us — thou didst murder wife and children with ! 
Us — child-destroyers — still thou keepest thine ! ' 



INDIVIDUAL JUDGMENT PREFERRED TO TRADITION. 4*3 

Ha, shall I bear them in my arms, then ? What 
Say for excuse ? Yet, naked of my darts 
Wherewith I did my bravest, Hellas through, 
Throwing myself beneath foot to my foes, 
Shall I die basely? No! relinquishment 
Of these must never be, — companions once, 
We sorrowfully must observe the pact ! 

O land of Kadmos, Theban people all, 
Shear off your locks, lament one wide lament, 
Go to my children's grave and, in one strain, 
Lament the whole of us — my dead and me — 
Since all together are fordone and lost, 
Smitten by Here's single stroke of fate ! " 

Even to this Euripides adds a few lines of talk between Heracles 
and Theseus that make the last scene yet more pathetic, and the play 
ends with their departure for Athens. 

This tragedy is an excellent specimen of the art of Euripides. The 
unexpected change by which the arrival of Heracles, that promised 
relief and blessing, suddenly accomplishes ruin, was a device that he 
was very fond of, and one that obviously gave his plays a novel charm. 
Even more important was the way in which the pitiableness of the 
awakening Heracles is brought out. To be sure, the machinery, by 
means of which Here secures his madness, is like some of that in the 
Iliad ; yet the tendency of the play is towards making the Greek 
deities despised, for just so far as they are brought down from heaven 
and exhibited as human beings, is their conduct estimated as would 
be that of men and women in like circumstances, and this is a test 
which they can not well endure. So long as they were kept aloof from 
criticism in an unknown heaven, they escaped too rigorous judgment, 
as does any aristocracy which is hidden from its victims. Yet in 
mythology, as in life, knowledge is a democratic element ; science is 
the great solvent of conventions, and, since there is but one right, the 
mere statement of wrong-doing, especially when its mischief is seen, 
is at once condemnation. It was in this way that Euripides formed 
the connecting link between antiquity and modern times, by repre- 
senting the right of individual judgment and its superiority over the 
acceptance of tradition. That he should have been condemned is 
only natural : the man who first utters what many feel, and what is 
to become a commonplace in the future, is sure of opposition. Yet 
Euripides, in time, carried the public with him, for views like his, how- 
ever condemned by authority, when once uttered in a free community, 
have to be solved, even if the solution overthrows the existing state 
of affairs ; and his thoughts were those of a period when the old faith 
was decaying and new questions were forcing themselves forward. It 



414 EURIPIDES. 

is true that the person who gives expression to any feeling helps in a 
way to further its influence, but he does not create it, although he 
suffers all the opprobrium that attaches itself to a ringleader, and in 
this way Euripides bore the brunt of all the odiousness of the irre- 
sistible change. There were very many to blame him for what he did, 
who regretted what they regarded as his perversion of the old tragedy, 
his abandonment of the old methods, and who, as was the case with 
Aristophanes, looked back longingly on the happy time when the 
tragedy had represented something greater than real life, forgetting 
that yEschylus had, like Euripides, only given form and utterance to 
the feelings of his own day, and that literature languishes when a 
writer decides to say what is expected of him rather than what he 
feels. We shall find abundant evidence of the extent to which even 
Aristophanes, much as he loved the past, was influenced by the present 
in his management of his art. Euripides apparently felt no scruples 
about moving with the current, and so gives us a most distinct example 
of the changes of this interesting period. 

In the Electra we may see once more how different was his way of 
looking at the old subjects from that of his predecessors. Fortunately, 
we are able to compare it directly with the treatment of the same sub- 
ject by both ^Eschylus and Sophocles, and yet it is to be borne in mind 
that the relative position of Euripides is not to be determined by this 
play alone. One striking thing in it is the frank criticism that it con- 
tained of the Libation Pourers of .^Eschylus. Then, it will be remem- 
bered, Electra recognizes the lock that Orestes laid on her father's 
grave by its likeness to her own hair, and her foot exactly filled the 
print left on the sand by her brother. Now Aristophanes, as we shall 
see later, was never tired of turning Euripides to ridicule, and of com- 
paring him unfavorably with ^Eschylus ; here Euripides had a chance 
to revenge himself, and although he made the older poet seem absurd, 
he put himself in no commendable light. Moreover, the more marked 
the success of his fling at ^Eschylus, the greater was the confusion 
that this double wrought in his own play. Yet it is possible to find a 
certain satisfaction in detecting this answer of Euripides to the jibes 
of his bitter parodist. It is but two or three lines that he employs for 
this purpose, but they must have had a great effect among the quick- 
witted Athenians. After all, we must remember that he had been 
attacked as no man has ever been attacked in the whole history of 
literature by the ablest master of invective that the world has ever 
known, and with ribaldry that has since lost the social position it then 
held. Here is his reply: 

An old man who had carried Orestes away when yEgisthus slew 
Agamemnon is present, who says to Electra : 



EURIPIDES' REPLY TO THE ASSAULTS OF ARISTOPHANES. 4*5 

" Do you examine the hair, placing it against your own, whether the tint 
of the shorn tresses be the same. For of children of the same father, most 
parts of the body are accustomed to be naturally alike." 

To this Electra replies : 

" You utter words unworthy of a wise man, if you think that my very bold 
brother would come into this land by stealth through fear of Aegisthus. 
Then how will the lock of hair match mine, the one belonging to a well-born 
man trained in athletic sports, the other to a woman employed in combing 
wool ? It is impossible. And you will find a great many persons, in no way 
related, having hair of the same appearance." 

The old man then says : 

" But do you step into his track and consider the print of his slipper, 
whether it be of the measure of your foot." 

Electra: "But how can there be footprints on stony ground ? And if 
there were any, the feet of a brother and of a sister would not be of the same 
size : the man's foot would be larger." 

That was all, but the memory of these lines must have clung to those 
who afterwards saw the play of ^Eschylus acted. In the Phoenician 
Virgins Euripides had also paid his respects to the earlier dramatist, 
who had at great length described the contending generals in his Seven 
against Thebes. Here is the passage: 

Eteocles says: "It shall be so ; and having gone to the city of the seven 
towns, I will appoint chiefs at the gates, as you advise, having opposed 
equal champions against equal foes. But to mention the name of each would 
be a great delay, the enemy being encamped under our very walls. But I 
will go that I may not be idle with my hand." 

While we remember that this was the only means of answering 
the attacks of Aristophanes that lay in the reach of Euripides, that 
even the serious tragedy had to be employed by him as a means of 
expressing opinions for which there was no other utterance, just as 
political feeling often employed the same device ; yet, here as every- 
where, the answer to the attack appears unfortunate, however inter- 
esting it may be. Euripides, not ^Eschylus, is hurt by the implied 
assault. That at a given moment his patience should have yielded is 
only natural, and our sympathy is awakened for the man who was the 
object of so violent abuse that the echo of it still affects men's judgment 
even at the present day, but his answer only marred the singleness of 
impression that his play would otherwise have produced. 

The subject is the familiar one, Electra's recognition of her brother 
and the murder of ^Egisthus and Clytemnestra. Yet Euripides 



41 6 EURIPIDES. 

employs his usual art to render the story more pathetic by representing 
Electra as the wife of a poor peasant, of noble family, to be sure, " but 



ORESTES AND ELECTRA. 
{Herculaneum Group.) 



yet poor in means," he says of himself, " whence noble descent is 
lost," even in the heroic age. This humble station secured the pity 
of the audience for the daughter of Agamemnon, and at the same 



EFFECT OF ADVANCING CIVILIZATION UPON THE DRAMA. 4 T 7 

time made it unlikely that she should be recognized by Orestes. The 
recognition, which is the best scene in the play, is much prolonged by 
this device, and is only brought about, in the failure of the means that 
^Eschylus had employed, by the intervention of the old man referred 
to above. He employs a means already approved by Homer and 
recognizes Orestes by an old scar. From this point the play moves 
swiftly to its end. The murder of Clytemnestra, who is lured into the 
peasant's hut, is impressive ; that of ^Egisthus is described by a mes- 
senger. At the conclusion the twins, Castor and Polydeuces, appear 
and order what shall be done afterwards. The play, with occasional 
merit, is ill-suited to bear comparison with the plays of ^Eschylus and 
Sophocles treating the same subject. 

Euripides does himself non-justice in his Ion, a play that is singu- 
larly important in its indications of the future growth of the drama. 
For one thing, it is not a tragedy, but a play with a happy ending and 
a long and complicated plot. In this respect Euripides was an inno- 
vator ; it was not the mere crisis of an event that he chose for his sub- 
ject, but rather an enlargement, a fuller development of the event, into 
which he introduced unsuspected circumstances. Thus, it will be 
noticed, advancing civilization always complicates the artist's work r 
for civilization is a process of accumulating knowledge and experience 
which make themselves more prominent in the mirror that the artist 
holds up to nature. Just as a boy in gazing at a landscape will see 
only the trees on which green apples or nuts grow, and the brook in 
which he may bathe after gorging himself with unseasonable fruit, an 
older person will perceive innumerable other things according to his 
knowledge : the farmer will observe the wheat that needs cutting, the 
meadow that must be drained, the pasture to be plowed ; the geolo- 
gist will notice the lay of the land, the rocks, the soil ; every one will 
see only what his education makes prominent. Thus, in the last cen- 
tury, the poets saw in the landscape only a violent contrast to the 
city ; nightingales, larks, sparrows were but birds except so far as their 
differences were pointed out by Latin poets. Flowers were flowers, 
without distinction of variety. Foliage was green, the sky was blue — 
the reader will remember how the Edinburgli Review took Wordsworth 
to task for flying in the face of that obvious fact by calling the sunset 
sky green — the evening was dark. Gradually there became perceptible 
in the colors of things hues that before were overlooked ; insects and 
birds were distinguished and defined. The old bonds were soon 
broken ; the peasant, whose appearance in literature maybe now seen 
surviving in the chorus of an Italian opera, became a man, and this 
change was felt in politics, theology, philosophy, as well as in art and 
literature. Euripides saw a similar change, and the old unity was 



4i S EURIPIDES. 

gone, just as now no educated person can read a newspaper or look at 
a landscape without receiving a host of impressions such as our great- 
grandfathers never knew. 

Hence we are justified in explaining the simplicity of the earlier 
Greek tragedies as the result of unpracticed perceptions rather 
than of artistic exclusion. The feeling of the earlier lack of com- 
plexity is common, and was thus explained by Edgar A. Poe in his 
" Marginalia " :* 

"About the 'Antigone,' as about all the ancient plays, there seems 
to me a certain baldness, the result of inexperience in art, but which 
pedantry would force us to believe the result of a studied and 
supremely artistic simplicity. Simplicity, indeed, is a very important 
feature of all true art — but not the simplicity which we see in the Greek 
drama. ... In the drama, the direct, straight-forward, tin-Ger- 
man Greek had no Nature so immediately [as to the sculptor] from 
which to make a copy. He did what he could. . . . The pro- 
found sense of one or two tragic, or rather melo-dramatic, elements 
(such as the idea of inexorable Destiny — this sense gleaming at inter- 
vals from out the darkness of the ancient stage), serves, in the very 
imperfection of its development, to show, not the dramatic ability, but 
the dramatic inability of the ancients. In a word, . . the complex 
[arts] . . demand the long and painfully progressive experience 
of ages. To the Greeks, beyond doubt, their drama seemed perfec- 
tion — it fully answered, to them, the dramatic end, excitement, and 
this fact is urged as proof of their drama's perfection in itself. It 
need only be said, in reply, that their art and their sense of art 
were necessarily on a par." 

It is not necessary to agree with the whole of this statement, 
trimmed and curtailed as it is, before acknowledging that it describes 
what many feel. Thus Mr. Lowell, in his article on Mr. Swinburne's 
tragedies, which is to be found in his " Among My Books," comparing 
the Electra of Sophocles with Hamlet, calls attention to the " differ- 
ence between the straightforward bloody-mindedness of Orestes and 
the metaphysical punctiliousness of the Dane. Yet each," he goes 
on, " was natural in his several way, and each would have been unin- 
telligible to the audience for which the other was intended. That 
Fate which the Greeks made to operate from without, we recognize 
at work within in some vice of character or hereditary disposition." 

These differences, it must be borne in mind, were not rejected by 
Sophocles, any more than the expression of individual characteristics 
was rejected by the great Greek sculptors ; they and he did not feel 

* See his Works. New York : Armstrong (1884), V. 266. 



PROGRESS TOWARD MODERNNESS IN THE ION. 419 

them. Euripides did, and this play bears many traces of the effect 
they wrought upon his mind. Let us first examine the plot. 

The play opens with the usual prologue, after which Ion, a young 
attendant of the temple at Delphi, comes in and sings a hymn as he 
performs his sacred duties. Then there enters the chorus of Athenian 
women, who wander about admiring the decorations of the temple ; 
they are accompanying Creusa, who is weeping. Ion asks the cause, 
and she makes a vague answer, that sad memories were called up and 
she wonders where she can appeal for justice if we are undone by the 
injustice of the gods. She then explains that she has come to Delphi 
to be freed from barrenness, and tells him of her descent and mar- 
riage. In turn she asks him who he is, and he tells her that he was 
a foundling, and was carried into the temple and brought up to fill his 
present place, and that he has no means of knowing who his parents 
were. Creusa then recounts her own story, pretending that it was the 
experience of one of her friends, who had borne a child to Apollo and 
had laid it in his cave, whence it had mysteriously disappeared. If the 
child had lived, it would have been of about the age of Ion. She 
wonders if the god will utter an oracle disclosing this child's fate, but 
this Ion deems unlikely, for it would be to his interest to keep the 
affair concealed. While Creusa complains to the god, her husband 
Xuthus enters, who tells her that the oracle of Trophonius has prom- 
ised that they should not leave the shrine at Delphi childless. Ion 
then remonstrates with the deity while going on with sacred rites, 
and the chorus pray that the house of Erechtheus, to which Creusa 
belongs, be not left childless. Then Xuthus appears once more and 
meets Ion, whom he greets as his child, explaining that the oracle had 
promised that the first person he met issuing from the temple should 
be his son. Ion, however, is filled with a desire to see his mother, and 
withstands the invitation of Xuthus to come to Athens, because he 
knows the contempt that the people of that city feel for strangers. At 
last, however, he consents, hoping to find that his mother belonged to 
that city, and the two depart to celebrate the answer of the oracle 
with a feast. This action pains the chorus, who see what a disappoint- 
ment it will be to Creusa. 

They were right ; when she finds out how things stand she is indig- 
nant, and she expresses very plainly her wrath with Apollo. An old 
pedagogue readily persuades her to seek vengeance, but the plan mis- 
carries, and when it has been determined that she shall be stoned to 
death she rushes to the altar as a suppliant. Ion hastens to pursue 
her and remonstrates angrily with her; he is unwilling to slay her at 
the altar, and laments that she should escape her just punishment, till 
the old Pythia appears, bringing with her the wraps he had worn when 



MODERN SPIRIT OF EURIPIDES. 421 

she found him in his infancy. He is much moved, and Creusa is soon 
able to prove that the embroidery was her work, and the other orna- 
ments of the child she describes, so that Ion is manifestly the child 
whom she thought she had lost. Ion himself is not wholly convinced, 
and is on the point of entering the temple to get full information from 
Apollo when Athene appears, explaining everything. They all then 
withdraw their complaints of Apollo, and the play ends. 

Such, then, is the plot of this play, with its intricacies plainly soluble 
by the audience and its cross-purposes thoroughly intelligible to them 
at least. From the beginning they were in possession of the whole 
secret, and they watched the dialogue of Creusa and Ion, and their 
misunderstanding with doubtless the same delight that one feels in 
witnessing any delicate social fencing. To be sure, by the necessities 
of the drama, it was a divine myth that formed the plot, but all that 
was remote was their names : they were mother and son, animated by 
a familiar human feeling. They were not abstract personalities moved 
hither and thither by a blind fate, but people groping their way to the 
light amid ordinary obstacles. Custom forbade that Euripides should 
raise his fellow-citizens to the position that was held by gods and 
mythical heroes ; but these heroes and divine beings he was at liberty 
to represent like his fellow-citizens, just as Voltaire in the last century 
veiled his modern teaching beneath the conventional stage-dresses and 
scenery. The great public, even of Athens, atoned for its real change 
of view by clinging warmly to the form, just as now a man who wore 
his hat inside of a church would be more obnoxious than a decorous 
atheist. 

In Creusa's recognition of Ion's baby-clothes we see the modern 
drama making its appearance on the Greek stage. There is no antique 
simplicity here, but the new-born complexity of emotion in which 
hopes and fears are shifting with every line that is uttered. Indeed, 
one may almost go so far as to say that the way in which Xuthus 
recognizes Ion for his son represents the old-fashioned machinery of 
the stage, and that Creusa's slower recognition represents the greater 
interest of the new methods. 

It is to be noticed, however, that this novelty must be limited to the 
devices of the drama alone, and that in Penelope's slow recognition of 
Odysseus we have an authoritative precedent for this slow solution, 
and throughout the Greek tragedies we are struck by the frequent 
corroboration of what Plato says in the Republic (x. 595). " Of all 
those beautiful tragic poets he seems to have been the original master 
and guide." Indeed, if the digression may be allowed, the Iliad and 
the Odyssey held the place of sacred books among the Greeks ; they 
formed the Bible that underlay the whole work of their civilization, just 



4 22 EURIPIDES. 

as they continue to hold in our day a place quite equal to that of some 
of the remoter books of the Old Testament. And as they were in 
old times what for that matter they are now in part, the groundwork 
of education, we continually notice to how great an extent the subse- 
quent literary fabric of Greece was built up on them as a foundation. 
From no other source did they draw such light and guidance. In this 
case there stood in every one's memory the ideal recognition in the 
Odyssey just mentioned ; and throughout the poetry, in imitation as 
well as in the unceasing references, we find continual proof of the 
authority of the Iliad and Odyssey. 

Even more interesting in the Ion is the condemnation of the rude 
tales of the old mythology. Ion speaks frankly: "Apollo," he says, 
"deserves remonstrance. What is he doing? He betrays virgins by 
violence and neglects the perishing children whom he has privily 
begotten. Do not thou act so, but when thou hast power follow 
virtue. For whatsoever mortal is base, him do the gods punish. How 
then is it right that you, who establish laws for mortals, shall yourselves 
be guilty of lawlessness? . . Ye do wrong, pursuing pleasure rather 
than prudence. It is unjust to call men vile who imitate the evil deeds 
of the gods instead of those who give such teaching." To be sure, the 
play ends with a recognition of the power and wisdom of the gods, but 
these words had been uttered, and their justice is not contradicted by 
the facts. Elsewhere in the play Euripides speaks of slaves : " For 
one thing," he says, "brings shame to slaves, the name. In all other 
respects, no slave that is honorable is worse than a free man." Words 
like these are sure to be remembered, and they attest for us the new 
spirit that was making itself felt in the drama. It is not in this play 
alone that these sentiments are to be found ; here, however, they 
combine with the general construction to strengthen the impression 
of modernness. 

The exact date of the production of Ion is not known, but it is con- 
jectured to have been about 419 B. C. It, at least, bears no traces of 
having been composed in a period of public distress. 

IV. 

The two plays of which Iphigeneia is the heroine are very note- 
worthy. The Iphigeneia in Aulis was brought out with the Bacchae 
after the poet's death, and was one of his latest compositions. It 
bears distinct marks of his most striking qualities. The mythical 
story is made interesting by its compact presentation of personal 
qualities ; the Greek heroes and the fate of Troy are but the setting 
for the drawing of a lovely character. 



THE IPHIGENEIAN PL A YS —THEIR STORY. 423 

Agamemnon has vowed to sacrifice his daughter Iphigeneia to 
placate Artemis who prevents the fleet from sailing to Troy. In order 
to bring her to Aulis he writes to Clytemnestra that he has promised 
to marry their daughter to Achilles, and the two women join him in 
total unconsciousness of what is really designed. When they discover 
Agamemnon's intention, Clytemnestra is overcome with wrathful sor- 
row, and Iphigeneia at first pleads for her life ; when, however, she sees 
how inevitable is the sacrifice, she resigns herself to her fate with the 
most touching readiness. At the last moment, however, Artemis, 
relenting, substitutes a hind for the human victim, and announces 
through Calchas, the seer, that she is satisfied, and that the fleet may 
sail. Euripides outdoes even himself in the pathos which he has 
woven into this play. 

"I have made up my mind to die," says Iphigeneia, "and I would 
fain act gloriously, discarding all ignoble thoughts. . . The sailing 
of the ships and the destruction of Troy depend upon me, as well as 
the future fate of women, that the barbarians do not steal them away 
from Greece. All these things I shall set right by my death, and my 
fame, as the freer of Greece, shall be blessed. Moreover, it is not 
right that I should be too fond of life, for thou hast brought me forth 
for the common good of Greece, not for thyself alone. . . If 
Artemis wishes my body, shall I, a mere mortal, withstand the god- 
dess? That can not be. I give my body for Greece. Sacrifice it and 
capture Troy. This shall long be my memorial, my children, my wed- 
ding, my glory." 

The whole play abounds with touching scenes. 

In the Iphigeneia among the Taurians, which was written earlier, the 
time is laid twenty years later, when Orestes, who in the other play 
was an infant that had fallen asleep when his mother carried him to 
Agamemnon's camp, has grown up, and has come to the Tauri to bear 
away the image of Artemis and thus secure a respite from the Furies 
who pursue him since he killed his mother. He is accompanied by 
Pylades, and the play gives a fascinating picture of their deep-seated 
friendship. Iphigeneia is among the Tauri, where she has been since 
Artemis carried her away from Aulis, and she has just had a dream 
which, she believes, announces the death of Orestes, when word is 
brought to her that two strangers have landed on the coast. They have 
thereby exposed themselves to a great peril, for it is the custom of the 
place to sacrifice to the goddess all the Greeks who reach that inhospi- 
table shore. She sees them, and, of course, not knowing who they are, 
determines that one shall be spared to take a letter to her brother. Then 
follows a beautiful contest between the two friends as to which shall 
give up his life to save the other. But this letter makes them known, 



424 



EURIPIDES. 



and at once the state of affairs is altered. The sole question is how they 
shall all escape with the image of Artemis from the land of Thoas, the 
king of the country. This scene, which bears a likeness to the similar 
adventure in the Helen, is interesting, especially when Thoas captures 
them, but Athene appears and bids him to let them go, and with this 
divine interference the play ends. This play, it will be remembered, 
has been imitated in later times, and notably by Goethe, but no one 
has outdone the early poet in his vivid rendering of the power of 
friendship. It was already a stride forward to have seen that unsel- 
fishness was an admirable thing ; after all, a decaying civilization, like 




IPH1GENEIA GIVING THE LETTER TO PYLADES. 
(From Apulian Amphora?) 

waning health, opens men's eyes to unsuspected virtues. Nor is this 
all that Euripides has done in this play ; he has told the incidents 
with a care and grace he has seldom equalled. The captive Greek 
maidens utter the tenderest longing for their distant home, and the 
modern reader feels in perfect sympathy with the play until the 
attempt is made to deceive Thoas ; then a discord arises. As one 
might say, we can sympathize with the Achilles of the Iliad, but we 
can not approve of Odysseus, the father of Greek deceit, and here, 
while friendship and fraternal affection are put in an honorable light, 
the way in which Thoas is circumvented is painful and repellant. Even 



COMPLICA TIONS CA USED B Y THE INTERFERENCE OF THE GODS. 425 

the ready appeal to divine sanction does not convince us, though it 
may explain the discord. The savagery of the Greek mythology ate 
into the heart of morality, and although the gods approved deceit, they 
were unable to make it honorable, and only brought confusion upon 
themselves. The Greeks paid dearly for their subtle intellect by 
letting it weave an ingenious web over simplicity and straightfor- 
wardness. 

Even more striking, however, is the construction of the end of the 
play, where the goddess Athene appears and complicates what was 
drawing to a natural end by special interposition. This method of 
concluding his plays by means of a dens ex machina is one of the char- 
acteristics of the later drama as handled by Euripides, and, like almost 
everything that is peculiar to him, it has been attacked as an enfeeble- 
ment of the tragedy by those who disliked him, and has been stoutly 
defended, sometimes indeed held up for special commendation, by 
those who admired him. The safest course may be simply to men- 
tion it as a change from the old custom, and one that he employs very 
frequently. Thus in the Orestes, Hippolytus, Andromache, Sup- 
pliants, Iphigeneia among the Taurians, Ion, Helen, and Electra, we 
find divinities appearing who, in all except the Andromache and Elec- 
tra, have a more or less important influence upon the action of the 
play. Only a few are without them ; among these are the Heraclidae, 
Iphigeneia in Aulis, the Phoenician Women, and the Medea, and in 
this last Medea is removed by a machine, as Aristotle in his " Poetics " 
notes and condemns, saying that the conclusion of a tragedy should be 
the result of the action, and ,not be introduced by an artifice as here. 
In the Iphigeneia in Tauris, or among the Taurians, all goes smoothly 
to its end, but the leading persons, when escaping, are driven back by 
a storm, only to be released by Athene, who once again sets them 
free. 

The reason of this modification of the drama is not plain. Unfor- 
tunately many of the opinions of modern men with regard to Euri- 
pides are taken without question from his deadly foe Aristophanes, who 
lost no opportunity to deride his detested contemporary, and always 
ascribed the worst motives to all that he did. In this case, however, 
it may have been the desire to bring the play into coherence with the 
old myth, and one especially flattering to the Athenians, that inspired 
the clumsy device. It is hard to suppose that the general modification 
of the drama was introduced without what at least seemed some im- 
portant intention, and it may be hasty to condemn it, because its real 
meaning is obscure. Calderon, in modern times, made frequent use of 
similar methods, so far without condemnation ; and it may be that 
Euripides, by assigning this important influence to the gods, expressed 



426 EURIPIDES. 

the general or common sentiment of his audience that their inter- 
ference in human affairs, was possible, or that in the past it had been 
possible. What to yEschylus had been implied by the course of affairs 
now, in darker days, seemed like a miracle, not a natural event. Fate 
seemed to deny, what had once been plain, that the divine control pro- 
duced good fortune insensibly. At this time it was necessary to show 
that the appearance of the gods was fitful and intermittent. Their 
introduction was homage to their power, and only in this way could 
their authority be conceived. All these suggestions are of course but 
the most meager hypotheses ; the fact remains that the dens ex macliina 
is a very mysterious divinity, and that the number of his worshippers 
is very small. Crude as may be the plan of Euripides, it is evident 
that it betokens a different view of the old question of responsibility 
for sin. In vEschylus, and even in the earlier plays of Sophocles, there 
are abundant signs of the survival of the notion that guilt is an inher- 
ited thing, that may be atoned for vicariously, while the later growth 
of individuality produced in the plays of Euripides a sense of personal 
responsibility which demanded the separate appearance of the gods, if 
their control of events was to receive any sort of recognition. The 
apparent clumsiness of his device is but the inevitable result of its 
novelty ; what is done for the first time is sure to be ill done. The 
masterly skill of his predecessors only makes it clear that they em- 
ployed generally accepted methods of accounting for the tragic 
discord. 

V. 

In the Bacchse, or the Priestesses of Dionysus, we have the only 
Greek tragedy concerned with the story of the god from the worship 
of whom tragedy had risen. Thespis, Phrynichus, and ^Eschylus had 
already treated similar subjects, but their treatment of these myths is 
wholly lost. This play, which was brought out after the death of 
Euripides, by his nephew, alone survives to bring vividly before us a 
side of the religious life of the Greeks which only careful study can 
make at all intelligible. 

Dionysus opens the play with the announcement that he is come to 
the land of Thebes from the distant East, introducing his worship into 
Hellas, and he deprecates the opposition of Pentheus, the king of the 
land, while he is glad of the number of his worshippers who already 
have joined his maddening revels. The chorus sing a wild lyrical song 
in praise of the god, and Cadmus, the former king, and Teiresias, the 
blind seer, both old men, appear with the announcement that they, too, 
are bent on honoring the same deity. They are joined by Pentheus 











DIONYSUS AND PERSONIFIED WINE. 



5ft 



42 6 EURIPIDES. 

who has been absent and has returned to find his peaceful kingdom in 
a strange commotion ; the women have left the palace and are wander- 
ing about the mountains, dancing in honor of this new deity, being 
lured away by the charmer from the Lydian land, whom he threatens 
severely: " If I catch him under this roof I will stop his making a noise 
with the thyrsus, and I will put an end to his waving his hair by cut- 
ting off his neck from his body." His surprise, which is certainly very 
natural, is only augmented by seeing the venerable Teiresias arrayed 
in dappled deer-skins, and his own grandfather, Cadmus, raging about 
with a thyrsus — the ivy and vine-wreathed wand carried by the 
adherents of Dionysus — he appeals to them to come to their senses. 
The two elders reason with the king and urge him to join the reveling 
crew and to withdraw his opposition to the new divinity, but Pentheus 
refuses. He renews his threats against the god and gives orders to 
have him brought bound before him if he is caught. Remonstrance 
only hardens him, nor is he moved by the appeal that the chorus make 
to the goddess of sanctity and their condemnation of those men who 
are full of self-conceit and think themselves wiser than any one else. 

At this point, w r hen the zeal of the adherents of Dionysus, and the 
indignation of his enemy have been clearly indicated, the god is brought 
in, bound, before Pentheus. The men who bring him describe their 
capture as only a god could be described : " He was docile in our hands, 
nor did he withdraw his foot in flight, but yielded willingly. Nor did 
he turn pale or change his wine-colored cheek, but laughed and per- 
mitted us to bind him and carry him away." They go on to say that 
the Bacchae who were shut up had escaped and were free, dancing in 
the meadows, invoking Bromius as their god : " Of their own accord 
the fetters fell from their feet, and the keys unlocked the doors with- 
out mortal hand, and full of wonders is this man." Yet all these signs 
have no weight with Pentheus, though he himself acknowledges the 
more than human beauty of the god. He at once proceeds to 
examine the stranger, unconscious that he has the god himself before 
him. Dionysus does not declare himself, but speaks only of his orgies, 
which he says that he derived from the god of wine. Pentheus orders 
him to confinement near the stable; "then," he says, "you may 
dance. And as for the women, your companions, I will either sell 
them or keep them at work as slaves." Dionysus goes off to his place 
of punishment of his own will, threatening Pentheus, however, with 
punishment for his wanton insolence. 

This scene is followed by a song from the chorus, who foretell the 
future success of the Dionysiac rites, and they invoke the god, wher- 
ever he may be, to free their companion and themselves from persecu- 
tion. Their prayer is heard ; the voice of the god sounds from his 



THE BACCHjE— TRIUMPH OF DIONYSUS. 



429 



prison : " Io, hear ye, hear my song, Io Bacchae ! Io Bacchse ! " An 
earthquake shakes the palace and announces the present god ; the 
flame blazes up about the tomb of Semele, and the chorus sink to the 
ground in terror. Dionysus then enters and describes his escape from 
prison. Pentheus had mistaken a bull for his victim, and had bound 
him instead of his prisoner, and was trying to tie him when the earth- 
quake and flame made him think that the palace was on fire. He 
called to the servants for water, and then drawing a sword he had 
chased a phantom under the impression that he was killing his prisoner, 
who had meanwhile left the king to his furies and had stepped out un- 
hurt. Then Pentheus finds him with some surprise, and Dionysus, still 
known only as the stranger, explains that the god had helped him. 
Then a messenger comes in with a long account of the marvelous 
doings of the revelling Theban women ; wine, water, and milk flowed 
from the ground when they struck it. Being interrupted in their 
sacred rites by herdsmen, they had determined to capture the king's 




PENTHEUS TORN TO PIECES. 



mother in order to win the king's favor, and they had without difficulty 
driven away the intruders, destroyed their herds, ruined everything. 
Armed men had been defeated by them. There was no limit to the 
wonders they had done. In conclusion, he urges the king not to 
oppose this mighty deity. But Pentheus is not moved ; he determines 
to quell the scandal, although the stranger assures him of the hopeless- 
ness of his attempt. The king declines his offer to bring the women 
to the palace, but accepts the proposition that he shall go to see them 
for himself, disguised as a woman. When he is gone in to dress himself 
in women's garments, the stranger assures the chorus that the king is 
now in their toils, and he prays that his wits may leave him as he 
comes in the power of Dionysus. After a song from the chorus, the 
king comes out, the victim of delusion, imagines that he sees two suns 
and two cities of Thebes, and that his escort is a horned bull. The 
chorus pray that he may receive his deserts, and presently a messenger 
appears to narrate the fate that has befallen Pentheus : He had climbed 



43° EURIPIDES. 

a fir-tree to observe the revels, when the stranger vanished, and a 
voice called forth from heaven, bidding the women to punish 
the intruder. Agave mistook her son Pentheus for a beast of 
chase, and with the help of the others she uprooted the tree, and 
with her sisters tore him to pieces. Agave returns to the city, 
bearing the head of her son, which she thinks is that of a 
lion, but Cadmus soon undeceives her, and Dionysus appears 
to warn that old monarch of the fate that awaits him, for 
Dionysus is angry at the treatment he had received at the hands 
of the Thebans. 

In this description of the play it may yet be possible to see, through 
" a gray veil " — as Shelley, with more justice, called a translation — 
what it was that the poet wrote, and even this disguise may not wholly 
hide the literary art that the poet brought to the composition of this 
memorable tragedy. Even if the wonder at the might of Dionysus is 
something that has lost religious significance to us, yet its expression, 
which is as genuine and intense as that of those feelings which we can 
comprehend, can not fail to impress the least sympathetic reader. 
Here science may aid us by showing us that orgies such as are here 
described still survive among savage races, and when we read of North 
American Indians who carry rattlesnakes in their mouths, we are not 
too remote from the crude religious nature-worship that underlay the 
Greek religion. That Euripides appealed to a genuine feeling is 
obvious, but our lack of sympathy may well explain our failure to com- 
prehend the object that the poet had in view in writing this play. 
That he had some definite intention is an obvious and unavoidable 
conclusion. It is impossible for us to imagine a man's making a single 
statement without a purpose, and a fortiori no one can write a play 
without a distinct intention. There is a certain opposition to this 
opinion from those who are vexed that men ask solely what was the 
moral aim of the author, but even this question is capable of a wider 
meaning than it sometimes receives. Euripides could even less have 
written the play without a meaning than we can read it without asking 
for one. Yet just what meaning it had for him we perhaps can con- 
jecture as little as he could have conjectured our wonder at the play, 
for wholly apart from the sincere admiration of the author's skill is 
the knowledge of the religious feeling that animated Euripides. 
Many other things as unlike our current way of regarding things we 
understand, if not by personal sympathy, yet by the possession of an 
unbroken tradition. Thus many of the forms of medievalism are as 
remote from us as the nature-worship which throbs through these won- 
derful lines, but we comprehend them as a part of our intellectual in- 
heritance from our ancestors ; yet this play reminds us of the abyss 



RELIGIOUS SIGNIFICANCE OF THE B ACCRUE. 43 1 

that separates the Greeks from ourselves, that only patient study of 
uncultivated races can ever hope to bridge. 

Meanwhile hypotheses abound : some suggest that Euripides in his 
old age felt impelled to confess that the path of the skeptic, in which 
he had long strayed, was a hopeless one, and that here he renewed his 
allegiance to the orthodox faith. To be sure, it is a singular ortho- 
doxy ; but it was all that he had. Others have thought that perhaps 
he was willing to suggest to the young Macedonian agnostics that 
their unripe opposition to religion was not what he could favor, 
and that while he reserved his own right of judgment, he condemned 
their undue haste. It may be, however, that in an uncongenial place 
he was willing to conceal his own opinions and to celebrate a popular 
worship, for the Macedonians did not scorn Dionysus. Nothing would 
have more endeared him to his new admirers than such conduct. But 
by far the most probable explanation is that he set here in dramatic 
form the religious reaction against modern learning that developed 
itself even earlier than the end of the Peloponnesian war, and that its 
fanaticism is to be discerned in the lurid lines of this play. Euripides 
felt the change, for no man endures such feeling alone ; the wrath of 
any one man finds its counterpart among other men ; no one ever 
curses oppression that others are not muttering their anger, and the 
religious excitement in these dark days must have been shared by 
most of those who saw ruin falling upon Athens. Superstition was 
begotten of terror and despair, as often happens in history, and this 
was perhaps the inspiration of the Bacchse. Moreover, the dramatic 
capabilities of the subject could not fail to tempt Euripides. Whatever 
his purpose, he wrote a play that abounds with fire and enthusiasm 
such as carry force even when the religious belief that they expressed 
is wholly incongruous and remote. The ancients who clearly compre- 
hended the worship of Dionysus greatly admired this play, which left 
its mark on much Latin poetry, and was a favorite wherever Greek 
literature was known. We read, for example, in Plutarch's life of 
Crassus, that the Parthians who defeated and slew that general were 
greatly delighted when some one repeated the tragic ending of the 
Bacchae when the head of Crassus was brought before them. 

No one who reads the play will fail to notice the wonderful way in 
which the background of natural scenery is coordinated with the nat- 
ural forces that make up the interest of this complex tragedy. 
Throughout the plays of Euripides we observe his keen eye for I 
nature, his susceptibility to the diverse beauty of land and sky, and 
often a very modern touch that makes it clear how very much men's 
ways of looking at things are the natural result of the measure of civ- 
ilization in which they live. Of course the resemblance remains a 



43 2 EURIPIDES. 

slight one : medievalism and the spirit of northern nations have 
left on the minds of modern men an indelible mark of which the 
earlier Greeks were innocent. Homer sees nature, as he sees men, 
with direct vision, and it is mainly in comparisons that he draws his 
vivid pictures, as here (II. xii. 278) : " But as flakes of snow fall thick 
on a winter day, when Zeus the Counsellor hath begun to snow, shoot- 
ing forth these arrows of his to men, and he hath lulled the winds, and 
he snoweth continually, till he hath covered the crests of the high hills 
and the uttermost headlands, and the grassy plains, and rich tillage 
of men ; and the snow is scattered over the burns and shores of the 
gray sea, and only the wave as it rolleth in keeps off the snow, but all 
other things are swathed over, when the shower of Zeus comes heavily, 
so from both their sides their stones flew thick," etc. 

Sophocles already detects the sympathy which at times nature 
appears to have for men, as when Electra wails before the palace- 
gates over the woes of her household : 

" O holy light of morn ! 
O air that does the whole earth compass round ! 
Oft have ye heard my cries of grief forlorn, 

And oft the echoing sound 

Of blows the breast that smite, 

When darkness yields to light. 

And lo, I will not fail 
To weep and mourn with wailings and with sighs, 
While yet I see the bright stars in the skies, 

Or watch the daylight glad — 

No, no, I will not fail, 

Like sorrowing nightingale, 
Before the gate to pour my sorrows free, 
My woe and sorrow at my father's door." 

Yet when she sings these words the Attendant has just said : 

" For lo ! the sun's bright rays 
Wake up the birds to tune their matin-songs, 
And star-deckt night's dark shadows flee away." 

And the student will recall the beautiful choral ode in the GEdipus 
at Colonus, already quoted, where the beauty of the scene stands in 
marked contrast with the melancholy of the play. Very memorable, 
too, is the conclusion of Philoctetes when that hero bids farewell to 
Lemnos : 

Philoctetes. 

Come, then, and let us bid farewell 

To this lone island where I dwell : 

Farewell, O home that still did'st keep 

Due vigil o'er me in my sleep ; 

Ye nymphs by stream or wood that roam ; 

Thou mighty voice of ocean's foam, 



DAWNING OF THE MODERN SPIRIT— NATURAL BEAUTY. 43 J 

Where oftentimes my head was wet 

With drivings of the South wind's fret ; 

And oft the mount that Hermes owns 

Sent forth its answer to my groans, 

The wailing loud as echo given 

To me by tempest-storms sore driven ; 

And ye, fountains clear and cool, 

Thou Lykian well, the wolves' own pool — 

We leave you, yea, we leave at last, 

Though small our hope in long years past : 

Farewell, O plain of Lemnos' isle, 

Around whose coasts the bright waves smile, 

Send me with prosperous voyage and fair 

Where the great Destinies may bear, 

Counsel of friends, and God supreme in Heaven, 

Who all this lot of ours hath well and wisely given. 

The modernness of Euripides continually appears in his view of the 
relation that bridges the gulf between nature and man ; thus, in the 
Suppliants, he speaks of " the insatiable joy of grief, that is like the 
drop forever oozing from the steep rock." In the same play the cho- 
rus says : " Like a wandering cloud, I float before the stormy winds." 
There is frequent mention of the yearning that is called up by watch- 
ing the flight of birds, but the expression varies from the formality of 
the lyric odes to the simplicity of lines and half-lines that merely color 
the passage in which they stand, while the more artificial measures rest 
upon the long-cultivated melic verse. The brief utterances indicate, 
perhaps, a deeper and more widely-spread perception of natural beauty 
than do the others, which may owe part of their quality to a long for- 
gotten religious significance that had sunk to the state of rhetorical 
decoration. In Euripides, too, we see the beginning of a love of lone- 
liness, of escape from the confusion of the world ; in a word, he parts 
from the simplicity and calmness of classical antiquity, and begins to 
share the complexity of modern life. 

The Cyclops possesses unusual interest as the sole specimen that has 
reached us of the satyric pieces that followed the tragic trilogies, and 
were it not for this solitary survival it would have been impossible, it 
can not be said to form conjectures, but to form a satisfactory notion 
of this form of dramatic composition. As it is, no well-organized mind 
can avoid regretting that we have not also one of the satyric plays of 
^Eschylus, but they were naturally regarded as of far less importance 
than the tragedies which they accompanied, and were allowed to dis- 
appear without an effort to save them, for the last thing which anti- 
quity could have comprehended would have been the modern scientific 
curiosity which rejects nothing. Even now there are plenty of people 
who fail to understand why students should find an interest in any- 
thing but acknowledged masterpieces. 



434 



EURIPIDES. 



From this play, and from what we know of the others of the same 
sort, it is clear that the satyric pieces were distinguished from the 
comedies by the fact that they had nothing to do with current life, but 
drew their subjects from the same stores of myths and legends that 
were used for the tragedies. This quality made them act more readily 
as a relief to the tragic gloom of the other members of the tetralogy. 
After three plays of a serious kind, a short one in which the tense 
pathetic interest could find relief was necessary, and a hero who could 
be laughed at or with, after a succession of those who appealed to com- 
miseration, was required to restore the mental equilibrium of the spec- 
tators. Apparently the historic origin of the satyric plays is to be 
found, as the name implies, in the old chorus of satyrs that took part 
in the Dionysiac festivities, and from their antics arose the merri- 




CHORUS IN SATYRIC PIECE. 



ment that formed the most prominent quality in these plays. In the 
earliest times they presented the ridiculous side of the old legends, 
and this they preserved later. 

In this play, it is the adventure of Odysseus with the Cyclops that 
forms the subject. The story is narrated, it will be remembered, in the 
ninth book of the Odyssey, and here it is repeated with only slight vari- 
ations. The characters, too, appear as they would in a tragedy on the 
same subject, but they are treated with what is almost the spirit of 
parody, as the extracts will show. Thus, the play opens with a 
speech of Silenus for a prologue, like those of the tragedies of Eurip- 
ides, wherein he explains that Dionvsus, having been captured by 



THE CYCLOPS.— ODYSSEUS AND SILENUS. 435 

Tyrrhenian pirates, the satyrs had started under his guidance to 
recover him, but that they had been wrecked on this island, where 
Polyphemus kept them for his slaves. The young ones 

" tend on the youngling sheep, 
But I remain to fill the water casks, 
Or sweeping the hard floor, or ministering 
Some impious and abominable meal 
To the fell Cyclops. I am wearied of it ! " 

as it is put in Shelley's translation. 

After a song of the satyrs, a Greek vessel is seen approaching the 
coast, which turns out to be that containing Odysseus. 

" Oh ! I know the man, 
Wordy and shrewd, the son of Sisyphus," 

says Silenus, and an explanation follows, after the pattern of those 
in the tragedies ; Odysseus explains that stress of weather had driven 
him thither on his homeward way from Troy, and learns what this 
strange land is, and that its inhabitants live, not on corn, but on milk 
and cheese and on the flesh of sheep. 

" Od. Have they the Bromian drink from the vine's stream ? 
SlL. Ah ! no ; they live in an ungracious land. 
Od. And are they just to strangers ? — hospitable ? 
SlL. They think the sweetest thing a stranger brings 

Is his own flesh. 
Od. What ! do they eat men's flesh ? 

SlL. No one comes here who is not eaten up." 

But the Cyclops is away, and Odysseus is anxious to get meat 
before his return. For it he offers wine, which Silenus drinks with 
pleasure before going to fetch the food. Then the satyrs appear and 
ask many questions about the siege of Troy, which is treated as an 
amusing joke. Helen, Silenus says, 

" left that good man Menelaus. 
There should be no more women in the world 
But such as are reserved for me alone." 

But their chatter is interrupted by the return of the Cyclops, and 

an echo of the tragedies fills the words of Odysseus when he is bidden 

to hide himself : 

" That will I never do ! 
The mighty Troy would be indeed disgraced 
If I should fly one man. How many times 
Have I withstood, with shield immovable, 
Ten thousand Phrygians ! — if I needs must die, 
Yet will I die with glory ; — if I live, 
The praise which I have gained will yet remain." 



43 6 



EURIPIDES. 



Probably it was the contrast between these expressions of determin- 
ation, common enough in the tragedies, and the frivolity of the gen- 
eral tone of the satyric plays, that gave the audience especial delight. 
The Cyclops enters, hungry for his dinner, and the satyrs wait upon 
him with amusing servility ; suddenly he descries the newly-landed 
Greeks and the provisions that had been set aside for them ; and he 
fancies that they are thieves. He sees that the face of Silenus is red, 
and he takes it for granted that he has been beaten. Silenus does not 
disabuse him, and Cyclops announces his determination to eat them : 

" Nay, haste, and place in order quickly 
The cooking knives, and heap upon the hearth, 
And kindle it, a great faggot of wood — 
As soon as they are slaughtered, they shall fill 
My belly, broiling warm from the live coals, 
Or boiled and seethed within the bubbling caldron. 
I am quite sick of the wild mountain game, 
Of stags and lions I have gorged enough, 
And I grow hungry for the flesh of men." 

At this statement Odysseus interrupts the monster and Silenus 

who is encouraging these cannibalistic 
tastes. The wily Greek in vain as- 
sures Polyphemus that Silenus gave 
him the things. He is not be- 
lieved, any more than is the chorus 
who in vain assert the truth. Odys- 
seus further goes on to explain that he 
was returning from Troy, but this is 
only an additional argument to him in 
favor of exterminating such base men, 
whom he bids get into the cave to be 
cooked. Odysseus breaks out : 

" Ai ! ai ! I have escaped the Trojan toils, 
I have escaped the sea, and now I fall 
Under the cruel grasp of one impious man. 
O Pallas, mistress, Goddess, sprung from Jove, 
Now, now, assist me! Mightier toils than 

Troy 
Are these ; — I totter on the chasms of peril." 




After a grim song of the chorus, in 
which the monster's cannibalism is 
most grimly and minutely described, 
Odysseus comes forth from the cave 
and narrates the terrors he has just 
seen within, where he had beheld his comrades devoured, and " a 
divine thought " had occurred to him : to fill the Cyclops with wine. 



ODYSSEUS OFFERING CYCLOPS WINE. 



THE CYCLOPS DRUGGED WITH WINE. 437 

He tells the satyrs of his further intentions to blind the ogre with a 
glowing shaft, a plan which the chorus hear with rapture. Then Odys- 
seus goes back into the cave in order to share the danger with his 
companions. Soon Polyphemus comes forth, 

" With the young feast oversated 
Like a merchant's vessel freighted 
To the water's edge, my crop 
Is laden to the gullet's top. 
The fresh meadow grass of spring 
Tempts me forth thus wandering 
To my brothers on the mountains, 
Who shall share the wine's sweet fountains, 
Bring the cask, O stranger, bring ! " 

As he sings before he lies down on the grass to continue his revels, 
Odysseus manages him with characteristic craft, dissuading him from 
assembling his brothers, and plying him with the strong wine. When 
Cyclops asks Odysseus his name the answer is : 

" My name is Nobody. What favor now 
Shall I receive to praise you at your hands ? " 

Cyclops promises that he shall be the last to be eaten, and mean- 
while he continues his debauch. When the monster has fallen asleep 
preparations are made for blinding him. Here occurs an unexpected 
turn : the satyrs, who have been forever bragging of their bravery, sud- 
denly lose heart and proffer feeble excuses when Odysseus asks them 
to seize the great stake : 

"We are too far; 
We cannot at this distance from the door 
Thrust fire into his eye," 

sings one semi-chorus, and the other: 

" And we just now 
Have become lame ; cannot move hand or foot." 

The chorus goes on : 

" The same thing has occurred to us, — our ancles 
Are sprained with standing here, I know not how." 

Odysseus asks : 

" What, sprained with standing still ? 
Chorus. "And there is dust 

Or ashes in our eyes, I know not whence. 
Od. Cowardly dogs ! ye will not aid me then ? 

Cho. With pitying my own back and my backbone, 

And with not wishing all my teeth knocked out, 



43 8 EURIPIDES. 

This cowardice comes of itself — but stay, 
I know a famous Orphic incantation 
To make the brand stick of its own accord 
Into the skull of this one-eyed son of earth." 

Once more, it will be noticed, Euripides sneers at current super- 
stitions, and Odysseus can do no more than call on them to sing 
inspiring words, which they do, and the stake is plunged in the eye of 
Polyphemus. Thereupon there is great uproar ; the poor Cyclops 
roars and groans; when the chorus ask if he fell into the fire when he 
was drunk, he says nobody blinded him, and he hurls himself about to 
catch his persecutors, misled by the words of the jeering chorus. 
Odysseus finally tells him his real name, and the play ends with these 
words : 

Od. " I bid thee weep — consider what I say, 

I go towards the shore to drive my ship 

To mine own land, o'er the Sicilian wave. 
CYC. Not so, if whelming you with this huge stone 

I can crush you and all your men together ; 

I will descend upon the shore, though blind, 

Groping my way adown the steep ravine. 
Cho. And we, the shipmates of Ulysses now, 

Will serve our Bacchus all our happy lives." 

These last words were probably the customary ending of these 
satyric plays which preserved the old worship of Dionysus. The 
humor is, doubtless, simple to our taste, but then we can not under- 
stand how very many implications of amusement may have lain hidden 
in the traditional reputation of the satyrs that their appearance and 
cowardliness called forth. Every conventional jest or jester has a 
certain authority from association, just as certain opposite objects 
invariably evoke gloom. Thus the clown in the circus does not always 
depend on the novelty of his witticisms for his success, and the satyrs 
were similar licensed merry-makers on whom no restraints were thrown. 
The whole question of the Greek humor belongs more properly, how- 
ever, to the discussion of the Greek comedy. 

Before leaving Euripides it is necessary to mention the Rhesus, a 
play always printed in the works of Euripides, although its authorship 
is distinctly a matter of uncertainty. Among those to whom it has 
been variously assigned are the younger Euripides, the nephew of the 
poet ; Sophocles ; an imitator of ^Eschylus ; an unknown literary forger 
who fed the hungry Alexandrian market ; and an equally unknown 
writer who anticipated the current fashion by writing for the closet 
instead of the stage ; choice between these and the alleged writer is 
difficult. The opinion is, at least, common among scholars that the 
play can not be ascribed with any positiveness to Euripides. The 



THE RHESUS.— FRAGMENTS OF EURIPIDES. 439 

subject is taken from the tenth book of the Iliad, which describes how 
the Greeks sent forth Odysseus and Diomed to examine the Trojan 
camp at the same time that Dolon came forth for a similar purpose 
from the other side. Dolon is slain, but before his death he makes 
some statements that are of great service to the Greeks. The result 
is that an attack is made on the band of Rhesus, a young Thracian 
who has just joined the Trojan army, and he is slain. Whoever wrote 
it, the play lacks the qualities that are to be found elsewhere in the 
work of Euripides, and it bears more frequent marks of study of the 
Iliad than any other tragedy that has reached us. 

Abundant fragments of other plays of Euripides have come down to 
us, and in Aristophanes there are many traces of his denunciation of 
tragedies that have not survived. Thus a Peleus is ridiculed in the 
comedian's Clouds. Mention is made elsewhere of an CEdipus and an 
Antigone. In the first of these the old king did not blind himself, as 
in the play of Sophocles, but his eyes were put out by the servants of 
Laius ; and the Antigone received a joyful termination : the heroine, 
after her brother's burial, is led away to death by command of Creon, 
but she is rescued by Haemon, and the play ends, like a modern novel, 
with their marriage. All the tragedians supplied material for quotation 
which was freely practiced in later days, and these extracts often give 
us lines of great beauty ; those from Euripides, as Mr. Symonds has 
pointed out, lose least by being separated from the context, for his 
aim was less the artistic whole than beauty of the separate parts. Of 
some of the plays, too, we have fuller accounts than we possess of the 
work of certain other tragedians whose names and reputations are 
frequently mentioned. 

In Mr. Symonds's " Studies of the Greek Poets," vol. ii., is a chapter 
on the fragments of ^Eschylus, Sophocles, and Euripides, where the 
reader will find numerous beautiful translations. Here is one from the 
Dictys of Euripides : 

" Think'st thou that Death will heed thy tears at all, 
Or send thy son back, if thou wilt but groan ? 
Nay, cease ; and, gazing at thy neighbor's grief, 
Grow calm : if thou wilt take the pains to reckon 
How many have toiled out their lives in bonds, 
How many wear to old age, robbed of children, 
And all who from the tyrant's height of glory, 
Have sunk to nothing. These things shouldst thou heed." 



VI. 

Of the later tragedians little is known except their names. Ion of 
Chios, who was young when ^Eschylus was writing, and Achaeus of 



44° EURIPIDES. 

Eretria, a few years the junior of Sophocles, were assigned places little 
inferior to that which ^Eschyius held. The sons of ^Eschylus, Bion 
and Euphorion, and his nephew, Philocles, long held an important 
position, in good measure because the family enjoyed the right of 
bringing out the plays of their illustrious ancestor. It was as if 
the family retained the copyright, or stage-right, of his plays. Of 
Philocles we know that he won the first prize over Sophocles with his 
King CEdipus, and, to counterbalance this, that he was ridiculed by 
Aristophanes. His son, Morsimos, and his grandson, Astydamas, 
acquired some reputation as writers of tragedies ; this Astydamas 
was also the father of two tragic poets. The fame of Ion of Chios 
was, however, much greater ; he studied philosophy and rhetoric, 
and his first appearance as a tragedian was in the year 452 B.C. 
and we hear of him again as a competitor with Euripides and Iop'hon 
in 428 B.C. These meagre incidents, with the exception of the fact 
that his poetical composition was affected by his rhetorical studies, 
are about all that we know. Of Achseus even less can be said. A 
fragment of Neophron's Medea has been given above. Theognis is 
called by Aristophanes a cold poet, a fame to which annihilation would 
have been preferable. Morychos had an even more unfavorable 
renown : stupider than Morychos was a familiar and decisive phrase. 
Carcinus and his descendants are embalmed in the plays of Aris- 
tophanes as examples of incompetence, but of course that comedian 
is not an unbiassed witness. Nothippus, Sthenelus, Melanthius, 
Pythangelus, Meletus, are but names without an echo. Of their con- 
temporaries Agathon has found him distinctly an object of modern 
curiosity. He is supposed to have been born about 447 B.C., and his first 
dramatic victory, as well as his first appearance as a tragic writer, took 
place in 416 B.C. The scene of the Symposium of Plato is the supper- 
party given to celebrate this success. Like Euripides, Agathon visited 
Macedonia. The names of only five of his plays are known, but we 
have distinct information with regard to the grace and tenderness of 
his style. Doubtless, he followed the fashion of which Euripides was 
regarded as a representative, and carried further the modern refine- 
ments and delicacies. Of Iophon and Ariston, the sons of Sophocles, 
and his grandson, Sophocles, scarcely more than the names survive. 
Iophon, however, was highly regarded. 

Later tragedians were numerous who followed with diminishing force 
the fashions that once had flourished, and, doubtless, carried them to 
the inevitable extreme. Such were Dicaeogenes, Antiphon, Cleophon, 
Chaeremon, Diogenes, the later Carcinus and Xenocles, Theodictes, 
Aphareus, etc. Of Cleophon we know only that in his eleven plays, 
or in some of them at least, he turned his attention to every-day life, 



44 2 EURIPIDES. 

which he represented with realistic language, thus, doubtless, forming 
a connecting link between the later tragedy and the new comedy. 
While the Greek tragedy was thus fading out of existence in Athens, 
its influence was spreading throughout Greece and the neighboring 
countries, especially in Asia. We have already seen that Euripides 
and Agathon visited Macedonia ; later Philip and Alexander showed 
their fondness for the theater, and their successors had the same taste. 
Alexander, it will be remembered, had three thousand comedians 
brought from Greece to celebrate the funeral games in honor of 
Hephaestion. In Egypt, at the court of the Ptolemies, the stage was 
highly honored. Even into Judea this taste made its way : Herod 
had two theaters built there, one in Csesarea, and the other in Jerusalem. 
The anecdote quoted above, in the account of the Bacchse, concerning 
the incident that took place after the defeat of Crassus, shows how 
general was the influence of the Greek stage. Later we shall see its 
great influence in Rome, and indeed this extended throughout the 
civilized world. The Sanskrit drama was in part indebted to the 
influence of that of Greece, knowledge of which was carried to India 
by the army of Alexander, besides spreading from simpler causes; and 
possibly, through India, it called forth the Chinese drama. And the 
fathers of the church saw the masterpieces of tragedy and comedy still 
performed. 

That the work of the other tragedians has disappeared so utterly 
from the face of the earth may be readily explained. Their work 
was held, and, doubtless, with justice, to be inferior to that of the 
three great men we have been studying, and the taste of the Alex- 
andrines exercised absolute exclusion of all work that was held to be 
but second-class, and when we remember that what has left has survived 
the ruin of two civilizations we need not wonder that so much has been 
lost. As Mr. Symonds puts it in his " Studies on the Greek Poets," 
ii.117: 

" What the public voice of the Athenians had approved the scholiasts 
of Alexandria winnowed. What the Alexandrians selected found its 
way to Rome. What the Roman grammarians sanctioned was carried 
in the dotage of culture to Byzantium. At each transition the peril 
by land and sea to rare codices, sometimes, probably, to unique auto- 
graphs, was incalculable. Then followed the fury of iconoclasts and 
fanatics, the firebrands of Omar, the remorseless crusade of churchmen 
against paganism, and the then great conflagrations of Byzantium." 

It is, indeed, not strange that in so many cases only names have 
reached us. These, at least, serve to show us how vast was the bulk 
of the Greek civilization, and the extent of its influence is even more 
remarkable. 



DISINTEGRATION OF GREEK THOUGHT. 443 

What most thoroughly survived these many vicissitudes was the 
influence of Euripides, who stood then as he stands now, as the repre- 
sentative of the disintegration of the Greek thought. The greatness 
of ^Eschylus and Sophocles was fully acknowledged, but Euripides 
had the tone of modernness ; he spoke to his hearers and later spectators 
and readers their own language, while the qualities of his predecessors, 
although they commanded admiration, were yet remote, as the lan- 
guage and inspiration of Shakspere and Milton are remote from us. 
The prevalence of his authority is indirect proof of the fact, which is 
sufficiently established by history, that the whole course of the modifi- 
cation of Greek thought follows the lines on which it began in his time ; 
it was a perpetual inquiry concerning men's relations to the gods and 
to one another which accompanied the continuous weakening of the 
old beliefs. The natural and well-founded pride of the Greeks in their 
intellectual superiority over their Macedonian and Roman masters 
helped to keep them faithful to the literary traditions of their prime, 
and in the confidants of the classical Italian and French tragedies we 
see a survival, or petrifaction, of the old Greek methods which forbade 
the use of unexpected incident or violent action as a means of arousing 
interest. The whole attention was devoted exclusively to the treat- 
ment, a custom which has also prevailed in French novels. The 
comedy of Greece, at least when it was in the hands of Aristophanes, 
knew no such law ; later, the authority of Euripides and the death 
of its political influence enforced a similar monotony. It became a 
work of art when it ceased to be an expression of political interest, 
and as such was subject to this artistic law of universal extent among 
the Greeks, as we shall see again in the study of their oratory. 

It is perhaps scarcely worth while to insist on another point that 
suggests itself; for although, in the absence of full information, every 
detail that has reached us is of interest and value, it is very easy to 
regard trifles as more important than they really are, yet it is curious 
to notice that, according to Athenseus, Euripides was one of the first 
of the Greeks to own a large library, and in the Frogs of Aristophanes 
(1. 1409) we find another reference to his books, when y£schylus con- 
sents to have them all thrown into the scale along with Euripides 
himself, his wife, children, and his friend and counsellor, Cephisophon, 
confident that he will outweigh this feathery load with two of his own 
verses. There is no doubt, then, that we have in Euripides the first 
great poet who was a reader, and among his many anticipations of 
modern tastes this may deserve to be counted. Certainly, a Greek 
who read at this time was pointing the way for his descendants ; for, 
when the active life of that race ceased, it at once began to expound 
what had been done in the past. 



CHAPTER VI.— THE COMEDY. 

I. — Obscurity of its Early History ; its Alleged Origins, in the Dionysiac Festivals, 
and in Various Places, as in Sicily, Among the Megarians, etc. — The Early 
Writers of Comedy. II. — Aristophanes — Comedy as he Found it ; its Technical 
Laws ; the Chorus, etc. — The Acharnians — The Seriousness of All the Com- 
edies ; Their Conservatism — The Horse-play. IIL--The Knights; its Attack 
on Cleon, and General Political Fervor. IV. — The Clouds, with its Derision of 
Socrates, and of Modern Tendencies. V. — The Wasps, and its Denunciation of 
Civic Decay. VI.— The Peace, and its Political Implications — The Poetical Side 
of Aristophanes. VII.— The Birds. VIII. — The Lysistrata, and the Thesmo- 
phoriazusae — The Attack on Euripides Directly, and Indirectly on Current 
Affairs — Hopelessness of the Position held by Aristophanes. IX. — The Frogs ; 
Euripides Again Assaulted, and yEschylus Exalted. X. — The Ecclesiazusse, and 
the Plutus — The Altered Conditions — The Unliterary Quality of Attic Comedy in 
its Early Days — Importance of Aristophanes as a Mouth-piece of the Athenian 
People. XI. — The Later Development of Comedy — Philemon and Menander; 
the Contrast between their Work and that of Aristophanes — Its Relation to the 
Later Times. 

I. 

THE early history of the Greek comedy is quite as obscure as that 
of the tragedy ; indeed, our knowledge of it is even more limited, 
for only seven plays of a single comic writer have been preserved out 
of which we may form our notion of the nature of this great division 
of Greek literature. To the Greeks themselves the investigation of 
the beginning of literary forms was vastly less important than the 
study of acknowledged masterpieces. Moreover, the long period in 
which the comic poetry held an ignoble position as a gross amusement 
of ignorant rustics that only slowly developed into a recognized 
branch of literary work, is a satisfactory excuse for their indifference 
to the remote beginnings. A race that has grown up without an im- 
portant admixture of foreign influence has certainly less impulse to 
study its own past than have those that have deliberately imitated 
antiquity at almost every step that they have taken. Science, too, 
would contemn its own lessons if it failed to remember that its limit- 
less curiosity is of only very recent growth. 

While the tragedy always maintained the dignity of its serious 
religious significance, and celebrated those ancient myths that told 
over the painful conflict of heroic strength against indomitable powers, 
the comedy for a long time existed as a mere rustic sport of wine- 



THE DION Y SI AC FESTIVALS. 445 

gatherers who celebrated the joyous side of their divinity. Far from 
finding a complicated literary form like the dithyramb to give it 
standing, it developed out of the coarse songs which sounded the 
fructifying powers of nature., and these were celebrated with all the 




THALIA. 
( The Muse of Comedy.} 



frankness and boldness of a half-civilized race whose religion was 
simple nature-worship, and who at no period of their history were 
under the dominion of what they would have called prudery had the 
quality existed. It is in respect of this trait that the chasm between 



446 THE COMEDY. 

antiquity and modern times is widest, and a full description of the 
license of the Dionysiac festivities. They can only be equalled at the 
present day by what we read of some of the rites of savage nations. 
In Greece, however, this spirit was combined with an intellectual 
vivacity that retained this direct combination of thought, impulse and 
action to an extent that we can scarcely understand now. It was 
among the Dorians that these sports flourished most freely, and that 
comedy first appeared, although they never raised it to the highest 
literary excellence. The Megarians were the first to lend to the song 
scurrility and the quality of personal and political satire ; and possibly 
their lack of an outlet in political life concentrated their attention in 
this direction. They, apparently, inserted into the Dionysiac song 
various references to current events, and in all the early comedy of the 
Dorians we find the comic art employed in caricaturing the interests 
and manners of every-day life. This was at least the characteristic of 
the humble comedy that existed among the Spartans. Something of 
the sort seems to have been carried to Sicily. Although ^Eschylus 
visited the court of Hiero, it appears that the Sicilians at the time of 
the Peloponnesian war could have had but little definite knowledge of 
the growth of the Attic drama than such as they saw in the rendering 
of his plays, because at the end of Plutarch's life of Nicias we read 
that some of the survivors of the unfortunate Sicilian expedition 
" owed their preservation to Euripides. Of all the Grecians, his was 
the muse whom the Sicilians were most in love with. From every 
stranger that landed in their island they gleaned every small specimen 
or portion of his works, and communicated it with pleasure to each 
other. It is said that, on this occasion, a number of Athenians, upon 
their return home, went to Euripides and thanked him in the most 
respectful manner for their obligations to his pen, some having been 
enfranchised for teaching their masters what they remembered of his 
poems, and others having got refreshments when they were wandering 
about, after the battle, by singing a few of his verses. Nor is this to 
be wondered at, since they tell us that when a ship from Caunus, 
which happened to be pursued by pirates, was going to take shelter 
in one of their ports, the Sicilians at first refused to admit her ; upon 
asking the crew whether they knew any of the verses of Euripides, and 
being answered in the affirmative, they received both them and their 
vessel." 

These statements attest not only a most intelligent curiosity but 
also the difficulties of gratifying it, and when Plato recommended the 
Clouds of Aristophanes to Dionysius, that play could not have been 
familiar even to the ruler of Syracuse. In so complete isolation, some- 
thing very different from the Attic comedy might well have grown up, 



SICILIAN COMED Y—EPICHARMUS—SA TIRE. 



447 



and in the plays of Epicharmus there was probably a spirit very unlike 
that which has immortalized Aristophanes. For a long time the Doric 
comedy had prevailed in Sicily, which had been colonized mainly by 
Dorians. Selinus, a member of a Megarian colony, Aristoxenes 
(about 660 B.C.), Antheas (about 596), are the names of these early 
poets who made use of the license of the Dionysiac festivals for more 
or less formal expression of satire and personal abuse or caricature, but 
it was in the hands of Epicharmus that the Sicilian comedy at last 
assumed its definite shape. In his early years he went to Sicily with his 
father, and finally established himself in Syracuse, where his talents 
were encouraged by the patronage of the tyrants Gelon and Hiero. 
His philosophical studies were quite as celebrated as his comedies, but 
it is these alone that concern us now. None of them have reached us, 
but their fame in antiquity was great enough to secure for their author 
a place among the brief list of the greatest writers of comedies. Plato 




PARODY OF THE ANTIGONE. 
( Vase Pa inting) . 

set him at the head of all, and another writer mentioned him with Or- 
pheus, Hesiod, Chcerilus, and Homer, as the greatest of the Hellenic 
poets. Plautus chose him for his model, and Cicero admired his wit 
and apt invention. He is said to have left fifty-two plays ; other 
authorities mention thirty-five or thirty-seven, and apparently they 
were written with considerable literary art. The refinement of the 
Syracusan court, when Pindar and ^Eschylus, his contemporaries, were 
welcome and admiring guests, is a fair guarantee of the equivalent 
value of his skill. His subjects were frequently taken from the 
familiar myths and legends, and it may be conjectured that Epi- 
charmus neglected no opportunities to set in a ridiculous light what 
other poets had recorded seriously. Thus, in the Busiris, Heracles 
appeared as an insatiable glutton ; in a number of the plays the 
Homeric myths were caricatured ; in Pyrrha and Prometheus the 



44^ THE COMEDY. 

traditional flood and the creation of mankind is the subject. In other 
plays he appears to have chosen ridiculous characters and scenes out 
of every-day life, and it was possibly here that Plautus imitated him. 

Among those who followed in his footsteps was his son or pupil Dino- 
lochus, and Phormus, the tutor of Gelon's children, but soon the Sicil- 
ian comedy. died out, and was succeeded by a new form called mimes. 
These lacked the formal construction of the kind just mentioned, and 
consisted merely of farcical presentations of absurd incidents of com- 
mon life. Sophron, a native of Syracuse, was the best known writer of 
these light compositions. He was a contemporary of Sophocles and 
Euripides. Besides the farcical mimes, he composed serious ones ; 
but in both the realism and lack of formality were the striking qual- 
ities. They were both inspired by the distinct mimetic skill of the 
Sicilians ; indeed their quick-witted conversational flavor is said by 
Aristotle to have exerted a direct influence on the growth of the 
Socratic dialogue of Plato, who learned to know them when in Syra- 
cuse, and carried them to Athens, where he studied them carefully. 
An example of one of these is to be found in one of the idyls of 
Theocritus, under whose works it will be studied later, when it will be 
seen how vivid is the breath of fresh air that it carries into another 
form of literature. 

Returning to Attica we find that the earliest trace of comedy here, 
as elsewhere in the Hellenic world, is to be traced back to Megara, for 
it was an inhabitant of that city who, in 578 B.C., introduced comic 
choruses into Icaria, the oldest seat in Attica of the worship of Dionysus. 
The Bacchic comos, or merrymaking, from which comedy gets its name, 
was doubtless much older. What Susarion did was to introduce such 
personal and political references as to mould them into something like 
dramatic form, though yet very far from any thing like theatrical effect. 
Whatever may have been the degree of excellence attained by these 
crude beginnings, into which, probably, the general lyrical superiority 
of the people brought considerable literary refinement, no great steps 
were taken for a long time. The political conditions did not encourage 
unbridled license until Athens became democratic and satire became a 
common property. These attempts possibly went but little further 
than the work of the Megarian Maeson, whose special disguise was 
that of a cook or scullion, which he presented with such skill that his 
name became the common title of these people in Athens. The Italian 
commedia delV arte is the nearest approach that we find in modern 
literature to this sort of typical dramatic effect attained by actors who 
caricatured certain familiar types. In fact, however, this comedy pro- 
duced no important results, and a Megarian jest was for antiquity a 
by-word like Scotch humor in these later days. 



ORIGIN OF COMEDY. 449 

For the eighty years after Susarion lived there are no traces of 
comedy in Attica, but in 487 B.C., three years after Marathon, when 
^schylus was laying the foundation of his fame, we hear of Chionides, 
Euetes, Euxenides, Myllus, and Magnes, all contemporaries of Epi- 
charmus. Of these only the first and last named had even in antiquity 
any literary prominence, and but little is known of their work; but it 
is easy and, doubtless, right to suppose that the vulgar humor of the 
Megarian comedy found less commendations among the swiftly 
ripening Athenians than among less cultivated people, and that the 
general swift intellectual advance of that city carried with it the 
improvement of the comedy. After all, comedy and tragedy are but 
different sides of the same shield, and when one side is held aloft the 
other can not be left behind. The delight of the Athenians in the 
tragedies of ^Eschylus naturally raised the tone of every sort of 
dramatic performance, and comedy improved, as in the Renaissance it 
improved simultaneously with modern tragedy; in each case, of course, 
preserving marks of its origin. The titles of some of the plays of 
Magnes make it clear that Aristophanes had him in mind when com- 
posing his comedies ; for example, the Frogs, Birds, and Gadflies. 
Magnes won the first prize in the contest of comedies no less than 
eleven times, but he was soon lost sight of in admiration for the work 
of his more brilliant successors. There were many others who won 
the glorious obscurity of leaving their names in the list of forgotten 
Greek comedians. Of these forty immortals one or two — is not that 
the usual average? — have left more than their names for the informa- 
tion of posterity. Among these is Cratinus, who holds to the Attic 
comedy the same position that ^Eschylus held to the tragedy, although 
he was, in fact, a contemporary of Sophocles and Euripides, and, sur- 
viving to the great age of ninety-seven, was a frequent rival of Aris- 
tophanes, over whom he was victorious with his Winebottle, his latest 
work, for he died in 423 B.C. or 422 B.C. He was aroused to the com- 
position of this last play by a violent assault which Aristophanes made 
upon him in his Knights, possibly under the influence of that feeling 
with which the men of every generation regard their immediate predeces- 
sors. Moreover, as we shall see, the Attic comedy was always marked 
by extravagant license of personal abuse. Cratinus himself won a repu- 
tation for violence in this respect, but he has a more honorable claim to 
mention as the man who gave artistic completeness to the early simple 
comedy. 

Another important man is Crates, whose first appearance as a writer 
of comedies was in 449 B.C. ; he had previously learned from experience 
as an actor what was needed on the stage, and he brought out a number 
of comedies in which he seems to have eschewed the personal satire 



45° THE COMEDY. 

that Cratinus had freely employed, notably against Pericles, and to 
have chosen incidents from private rather than from public life for his 
subjects. Pherecrates, a contemporary of Aristophanes, appears to 
have followed Crates in this respect. Eupolis, born "446 B.C., was for 
some time a friend of Aristophanes, and his fellow-worker in the task 
of enforcing upon the Athenian public serious ethical and political les- 
sons. These he conveyed with literary art and grace. 



II. 

Yet of the whole Attic comedy but eleven plays have been left, and 
these are all the work of Aristophanes, the acknowledged master of 
this form of composition. It was in the year 427 B.C. that this writer 
first presented himself to the Athenian public, under another name, out 
of diffidence, or, perhaps, out of compliance with a law that forbade 
the writing of comedies to men under a certain age. Very soon he 
acquired fame by his wit and boldness in attacking the leaders of the 
people, and his comedies followed one another in swift succession. 
His last appearance was in 388 B.C. Of the facts of his life, it will be 
noticed, but little is known. The examination of his plays will serve 
to indicate his aim and method, but before studying these it will be well 
to examine the formal condition of the Athenian comedy at this time. 
Remembering that it grew from the license of the Dionysiac festivals 
and their opportunity for wantonness and scurrility, we shall not be 
surprised to find traces, and more than traces, of these qualities in the 
ripe and perfected work of later times. All serious poetry bears the 
mark of its religious origin in its liturgical rhythms and choice of 
words, to say nothing of its subjects, and .these consequences of its 
remote beginning survive even in late days in the frequent aristocratic 
aversion of poetry to treat other than certain formal themes. This is 
possibly truer of modern than of ancient times. The religious origin 
of the art of painting is still an obstacle to its intelligent growth so 
long as the public demand from it, not the play of light and shade, but 
an indefinable something which remains vague even when it is called 
soul. Struggle as we may, the highest flight of the imagination is 
nothing more than an impressive arrangement of familiar details, and 
no artist can do more than choose among acknowledged facts. When 
the Greek tragedians, or Shakspere, or Homer, move us, they do it by 
the intelligent handling of familiar material ; yet, in literature and the 
arts, we find that the religious significance, that is to say, an impossible 
mystery, is often expected. Fortunately, comedy escaped this handi- 
capping. It remained a profane weapon for the denunciation of 



COMEDY AS AN ORGAN OF CONSERVATISM— THE PARABASIS. 45 1 

absurdities ; and since new thoughts are tolerably sure to appear absurd 
to those who do not share them, it became a recognized organ of con- 
servatism. The steps by which the satyric chorus developed into an 
important part of the comedy are obscure, but the importance of the 
chorus survived in, at least, one peculiarity of the comedy, the para- 
basis (or going aside, digression), which followed the exposition of the 
play, or prologue. In this parabasis the poet was able through the 
chorus to address the public face to face ; he could explain his inten- 
tions, offer any apology or defense that he thought necessary. The 
chorus., which previously had stood on the stage to take part in the 
play as an actor, would step down into the orchestra, nearer the specta- 





FIGURES IN COMEDY, 



tors, and utter the parabasis. This division of the play consisted, when 
complete, of distinct parts as formal as all Greek lyric verse, in which 
invocations to the gods or in defense of the state or city are accom- 
panied with political advice or warning. In the later plays it lost its 
force, and was succeeded by simpler lyric passages. Gradually, as we 
shall see, the value of the chorus evaporated away. The other lyrical 
portions of the chorus bore no special names. These were generally 
devoted to ridicule of various persons, generally such as had no con- 
nection with the play. They were accompanied with music and dance. 
The dance of the comedies was the cordax, a licentious performance, 
inherited from the earlier rites. Aristophanes condemned it, but, 



45 2 



THE COMEDY. 



nevertheless, at times, he employed something very like it. Other 
dances were also put on the stage by him, although these were pos- 
sibly of a less free nature. 

The chorus consisted of twenty-four persons, and the expenses of 
preparing it were borne by the city, as was the case with the tragedy. 
The masks which they wore were naturally different, at least so far as 
the expression was concerned, from those worn by the tragic actors. 
Different ages and professions were distinguished by various conven- 
tional attributes, and prominent people had their personal appearance 
caricatured when the play required it. In those plays in which birds 
or wasps appeared as characters the mask became a very important 

part of the disguise, probably surviving 
from the animal masks used by many 
savage races. Their costumes were in 
ordinary cases probably like those of 
ordinary citizens, but, doubtless, were 
variously modified when extraordinary 
circumstances in the play required a 
change. In a word, all the resources of 
the theater were continually employed to 
produce a vivid and life-like impression. 
The stage-effects appear to have been 
simple. But what is lost in the lapse of 
time in the setting of the play on the 
stage is even less than is lost in eveiy 
translation of Aristophanes. The deli- 
cacy and vivacity of his dialogue and the 
abundant splendor of his lyrical inter- 
ludes receive but scant justice in even 
the best English versions. 

The whole number of the plays of 
Aristophanes was about forty, for authori- 
ties vary as to the exact list. Of these, 
as has been said, eleven survive in a complete form, and of the rest 
more than seven hundred fragments give us vivid instances of his 
boundless wit and invention, though but vague notions of the lost 
plots. Fortunately, the plays cover his long career, from 425 B.C., three 
years after his first appearance, to 388 B.C., the date when he brought out 
his last play, so that we can see many of the variations in his method ; 
but there are, of course, plays missing that scholars would very 
gladly regain, such as those in which he handled tragic myths. 

The earliest of those that survive is the Acharnians, 425 B.C., the third 
piece that Aristophanes produced, but the earliest to win the first prize. 




ARISTOPHANES. 



THE FUNCTION OF COMEDY. 453 

It is a political piece, not only full of allusions to contemporary events, 
but depending for its main interest on the state of the Peloponnesian 
war that was now in its sixth year. Thus the comedy has an interest 
for us and a deep significance wholly beside its humorous effect. 
Indeed, while every work of art is the resultant of all the forces that 
work upon the mind of the artist, we find in the comedy an immediate 
presentation of scenes such as is found only with more difficulty in the 
tragedy. The comic writer is necessarily near life. A jest that can 
only be understood after it is explained by commentators loses its 
right to that name, and to the Athenians the writings of Aristophanes 
had a vividness that was its most striking quality. With time, of 
course, much of this is lost, but enough remains to justify the high 
praise that he received. We shall see how grave after all is the come- 
dian's work ; behind the laughing mask is an active, serious brain that 
is grappling with momentous questions; the comicality is, as it were, 
a literary quality, like eloquence, for the more striking enforcement of 
solemn truths. Always humor stands in relief against the tragic 
intensity of life ; it continually implies a reference to what we know is 
not amusing. It counts by its suggestions of what is left unsaid. 

A noticeable thing is this, that in the hands of Aristophanes comedy 
was employed as a buttress of society, as a defender of the old tra- 
ditions which we have seen attacked and exposed by Euripides, 
although it is commonly held that wit is a corrosive that eats only into 
venerable absurdities. Yet, as often as not, it is a conservative force, 
especially when the attack on society is made by fanatics whose 
earnestness and enthusiasm present a ludicrous side. This was the 
position of Voltaire in his treatment of Rousseau, as well as of Aris- 
tophanes, and if ridicule killed, its victims would have been long since 
forgotten ; on the other hand, Erasmus, Rabelais, and Heine were 
prominent among those who helped to bring about a change by the 
application of their wit to contemporary affairs, so that it appears 
impossible to make any general statement as to the side on which the 
wits shall enlist. Like every one else, they decide that for themselves, 
and every quality may be found on both sides of the continual con- 
troversy between conservatism and radicalism that forever agitates the 
world. When even wealth and position fail to secure men's loyalty to 
tradition, how can intelligence be expected to count? 

Yet nowhere do we find greater conservatism than in the apparatus 
of humor and ridicule ; even coronations are tainted with modernness 
by the side of the machinery of comedy. We detect this antiquity 
not only in the mouldy jests that have come down to us from the flint 
period, but in the painted cheeks of the circus clown, who probably 
represents the survival of an earlier civilization than any to be observed 



454 



THE COMEDY. 



elsewhere in the community, and in the fool's cap that still lingers in 
the schoolroom for the correction of careless boys. Punch himself, the 
fantastic figure of fun that we see every week, carries us back by his 
uniform to a very remote past. Aristophanes shows us the venerable 
forms of what was already antiquity in the allegorical personifications 
that crowd his pages, and in the conventional merry-making of his 
plays, his drastic rendering of old jokes by living beings who act them 
out. The tragedy outgrew its inheritance from older times in its swift 
development from ^Eschylus to Euripides, and became, as it were, the 
organ of progress, the outlet for the expression of the new thought that 
made its home in Athens, while the comedy retained its old forms and 
became a strictly conservative force, its literary method remaining the 
contemporary of the thought that it uttered. 





GRECIAN FARMERS. 



In the Acharnians one will find few traces of subtle work ; no other 
play of Aristophanes is fuller of roaring horse-play than this, — horse- 
play tempered with corrosive satire that must have burned into some 
of the objects of his condemnation, — and its abundant and vivacious 
merriment may well serve to indicate to what an extent the old comedy 
was untrammeled by literary traditions. In this play the author set 
before his public a serious thought, but he clothed it in a form which 
is neither comedy nor farce, as we understand those words, but rather 
with ( bubbling, over-running freedom and extravagance and the most 
lavish invention. The subject is a denunciation of the Peloponnesian 
war, which had been raging for five years and had done great mischief 
to the regions lying outside of Athens. The Athenians maintained 
their courage in spite of all their reverses; a few years earlier the 



THE ACHARNIANS— OPPOSITION TO THE WAR. 455 

plague had raged in the over-crowded city and carried away Pericles, 
who had been succeeded by the demagogue Cleon. Yet, it was against 
the military spirit that Aristophanes made bold to speak, and in 
selecting the Acharnians he chose the most vigorous supporters of the 
war as the object of his satire. The suburb in which they lived lay 
about eight miles from Athens, and every year it had been exposed to 
the ravages of the enemy; but their spirit was unbroken, and these 
charcoal burners (for preparing charcoal was their main occupation), 
formed a large part of the military contingent. The leading character 
Dicaeopolis, or good citizen, is a farmer who has been driven from the 
country to seek protection within the walls of the city, and is anxious 
for the restoration of peace. At the opening of the play he is found 
sitting in the Pnyx, where the citizens are accustomed to hold their 
public meetings, and there he waits for them to assemble. Meanwhile, 
he recounts his joys and sorrows, and the dramatist's tongue begins its 
lashing : 

" How oft have I been vexed to the very soul ! 
How seldom had a treat ! A brace, perhaps ; 
Two brace, at most — and then my disappointments- — 
Oh, they were millions, billions, — sea-sand-illions. 
Come, then : What did I really enjoy ? 
Yes : one sight fill'd my soul with delectation, 
Cleon disgorging those five talents. Ah, 
How I enjoy'd it ! How I love the Knights 
Still for that deed, one worthy Hellas thanks. 
But then, per contra stands that stage surprise 
Most shocking, when I sat with mouth agape 
Waiting for JEschylus, and the crier called — 
' Theognis, bring your chorus on ' ; just fancy 
The shock it gave me." 

Here we have the earliest extant reference of Aristophanes to Cleon, 
between whom waged bitter strife, and the scratch at the frigid trage- 
dies of Theognis, but these are only introductory to the complaint of 
the hero over the dilatoriness of the citizens, and especially of the 
presidents, who only come in at the last minute : 

" Pushing and crushing 
To get at the best seats, like streams they roll on ! 
For peace they never care." 

Dicaeopolis, however, has chosen a good place from which he can 
howl down all those who shall speak of anything but peace. When 
the meeting is opened Amphitheus, a demi-god, announces himself 
with a formality parodying the tragic manner of Euripides, and asserts 
that the gods have given him a special license to make a peace with 
Sparta ; he would be grateful, however, for a small contribution from 



45 6 THE COMEDY. 

the presiding officers. He is instantly dragged away, and the Persian 
ambassadors appear upon the stage. Curiously enough, in a single 
line which they utter, later Orientalists have discovered fairly good 
ancient Persian, which had proved a stumbling-block to those who 
tried to interpret it as bad Greek. These men are represented as 
ridiculous creatures ; their words are translated into a promise of 
money, and the accompanying Greeks give absurd excuses for the long 
time they have been absent, drawing pay. The ambassadors are in- 
vited to a public dinner, which incident gives the last touch to the 
wrath of Dicaeopolis, so that he at once asks of Amphitheus a peace 
for himself and family with Sparta. Then Theorus enters to report 
upon his success in seeking alliance with Thrace. He brings an army 
on the stage that can be compared only with Falstaffs forces. Al- 
though the native troops are not paid, these worthless allies are almost 
engaged, when Dicaeopolis breaks up the meeting and their acceptance 
is postponed. 

Immediately Amphitheus returns, having narrowly escaped mobbing 
at the hands of the Acharnians, with three samples of peace in wine- 
jars for Dicaeopolis to choose from. The five and ten years' truce he 
rejects, but the thirty years' truce contents him and off he goes. No 
sooner is he away than the chorus of Acharnians comes on, in search 
of the peace-loving rascal. Here the old form of the comedy survives : 
Dicaeopolis sings a phallic hymn in praise of the joys of peace and in 
condemnation of the horrors of war, and then afterward he discusses 
with the angry chorus what he has just done. How full the humor of 
Aristophanes is of malicious invention may be seen from the fact that 
he caricatures here a play of Euripides, who, in his Telephus, now 
lost, had let one of the characters produce a royal infant whom he 
threatened to kill with his sword if he were not granted a hearing; 
Dicaeopolis brings forward a coal-scuttle wrapped up in long 
clothes and threatens to run it through. This overwhelms the 

Acharnians : 

• 

" We are done for ! Do not kill him ! Our own demesman ! Oh, forbear ! 
Oh, that scuttle ! Do not harm him ! Spare him, we beseech thee, spare ! 
Die. Bawl away, for I shall slay him. I'll not hear you, on my soul. 
Chor. Oh, mine own familiar comrade ! Oh, my noble heart of coal ! 

Die. But just now you would not hear me speak a word about the peace. 
Chor. Speak it now, and praise the Spartans to the top of your caprice ! 
For 1 never will prove traitor to my little scuttle here ! " 

Before getting to the argument, Dicaeopolis wishes to make the 
most complete preparations, and for this purpose he seeks the aid of 
Euripides, going to his house to borrow some of the tattered garments 
in which that poet's heroes were accustomed to be arrayed. He asks 



EURIPIDES IN THE ACHARNIANS. 457 

for one thing and another until finally he accumulates nearly all the 
tragedian's pathetic properties. 
He asks if Euripides is in : 

Ceph. Even so. 

His soul's abroad collecting versicles ; 

His bodily presence here play-mongering 

In a garret. 
Die. Happy, happy, happy poet ! 

Whose slave can logic chop so learnedly : 

Summon him. 
Ceph. But I could not. 
Die. But you must. 

I will not go away : I'll keep on knocking. 

Euripides, my sweet Euripides ! 

Open to me, if ever you admitted 

A mortal man. I'm Dicasopolis 

Of Chollid ward. 
EUR. This is no holiday. 
Die. Well, bid them turn the house-front and display 

Th' interior. 
Eur. But I could not. 
Die. But you must. 

Eur. I'll do, then, as you ask, but won't come down. 
Die. Euripides ! 
Eur. What screamest ? 
Die. Why not write 

Down here, instead of perching in that cockloft ? 

That's why your characters go lame before 

They come to us. And what's the use of all 

These sorry weeds and stage rags ? That is why 

You put so many beggars on the stage. 

But I beseech you, for sweet pity's sake, 

Give me some rag from some old worn-out play, 

For to the Chorus I am bound to make 

A speech ; and if I fail, 'twill cost my life. 
Eur. Rags, and what rags ? Those in which Oeneus here 

Erst played, that " very feeble, fond old man " ? 
Die. Not Oeneus, no. There was a worse than that. 
EUR. Phoenix, blind Phoenix ? 
Die. No, not his; there was 

A character more ragged still than Phoenix. 
Eur. What " thing of shreds and patches " would'st thou have ? 

Is it the beggar Philoctetes' rags ? 
Die. No. Something far more beggarly than his. 
Eur. What, then ? The squalid tatters of the lame Bellerophon ? 
Die. No, lame he was indeed, 

And used to beg, and well could wag his tongue. 
Eur. I know the one you think of: Telephus, 

The Mysian king. 
Die. The very man. 
Eur. Here, boy ! 

Bring me the tattered garb of Telephus ; 

It lies upon the Thyestean rags, 

'Twixt them and Ino's. Take them, there they are. 
Die. O, Zeus, that lookest down on everything, 

And seest through them all, may I succeed 

In garbing me in guise most miserable. 



45 8 THE COMEDY. 

And since you've been so kind, Euripides, 

Lend me the other properties that go 

Along with these : I mean the Mysian cap, 

" For I this day must play the beggar here — 

Be what I am, but other far appear." 

The house must recognize me as myself — 

The Chorus standing by like fools, that I 

At the old cocks may poke my quiddities. 
Eur. Here. " Thy device is shrewd, and right thy rede." 
Die. Oh, blessings on you; "and on Telephus — ■ 

What's in my thoughts." Bravo, I'm getting full 

Of quibbles. But I want a beggar's staff. 
Eur. Take, then, the staff, and leave the " marble halls." 
Die. My soul, thou seest how I'm driven forth, 

Though many properties I lack. But thou 

Be in thy begging whine importunate. 

{To Euripides) Lend me a basket that the lamp has burn'd 

A hole in. 
Eur. Of this wicker thing, poor wretch, 

What need hast thou ? 
Die. Need have I none, but want it. 
Eur. I tell you, you annoy me, and must go. 
Die. Ah ! may God bless you — like your blessed mother. 
Eur. Now pray be off. 
Die. Well, give me just one thing — 

A little cup with broken rim. 
Eur. Oh, take it. 

A murrain with it ! You're a bore, I tell you. 
Die. Thou knowest not yet what mischief thou art doing. 

But, sweet Euripides, just one thing more. 

A pipkin with a hole in't, plugg'd with sponge. 
Eur. You're robbing me of all my tragic art. 

Take it and go. 
Die. I will. And yet, how can I ! 

One thing I need, and if I get it not 

I'm ruined. Listen, dear Euripides ; 

If I get this I'll go and come not back : — 

Some refuse cabbage leaves to fill my basket. 
Eur. You'll ruin me : there ! — now you've taken all 

My tragic genius. 

With this aid Dicaeopolis is able to make so moving an appeal in 
behalf of peace, and so effective a defense of the Spartans, that he 
secures the favor of half the chorus ; the other half invoke the aid of 
the warlike Lamachus, a famous general. Lamachus vows a renewal 
of hostilities, while Dicaeopolis offers free trade to Megara, Bceotia, 
and the whole Peloponnesus. 

At this point comes the parabasis, in which Aristophanes directly 
addressed the audience and defended himself from the charge of libel- 
ing the state. Afterward the chorus complained of the way in which 
old servants were neglected, and the extent to which they were ill- 
treated in courts of law, and no contrast is greater than that between 
the reveling of the rest of the play and these serious addresses to the 
Athenians. 



ANIMATION AND HUMOR OF THE ACHARNIANS. 



459 



When the play begins again, people have begun to arrive at Dicae- 
opolis's market in order to trade. A Megarian brings his daughters 
to sell as pigs, and Dicaeopolis purchases them for some salt and gar- 
lic, and saves the Megarian from an informer. Then a Boeotian comes 
with an abundance of valuable things which he sells for one obnoxious 
informer, namely, Nicharchus, who threatened to denounce the 
stranger for bringing a wick into the city, wherewith he might have 
burned down the dockyard. The chorus sing a lyric in praise of 
peace, and then appears a herald who promises a skin of wine to 




MARKET SCENE. 



the most successful tippler. Dicaeopolis makes his preparations, and 
gives to no one a taste of his precious wine except to a bride who 
wants a drop in order to keep her husband at home. Lamachus 
receives orders to go out into the snow on military service, and Di- 
caeopolis receives an invitation to dinner ; finally they both return, the 
general wounded and wretched, and Dicaeopolis drunk and happy. 
Thus the advantages of peace are most vividly portrayed, for the far- 
cical contrast between the bruised soldier and the wine-flown lover 
of peace gives an impressive close to the play. Its vinous flavor 
belongs to it as a part of the worship of Dionysus, and the final 
absurdity keeps it well in the region of comedy. 

No one has ever worked with a broader brush than has Aristophanes 
in this play and the next one, the Knights. They are both compact 
with life. The humor moves in a great current that drags with it the 
direct inculcation of the sweetness of peace, contempt for ambitious 
leaders and perpetual reproof of Euripides. The play is full of lines 
that caricature and parody lines from his Telephus ; a messenger comes 
in and mocks the long speeches of the tragic bearers of evil tidings; 



460 THE COMEDY. 

the informers, a class that poisoned the political life of Athens at its 
roots, are denounced most bitterly. The play abounds with life ; it is 
magnificently rich in reality, a vast outbreak of tumultuous emotion, 
not a mere tender stream of acid comment or ill-natured sarcasm. Only 
Rabelais comes so near being an elemental force. 



III. 

The Knights, which appeared in the next year, 424 B.C., bears many 
marks of likeness to the Acharnians, and this time it is Cleon, the 
demagogue, who is marked for slaughter. All the earlier plays of 
Aristophanes had been brought out by some one else ; for what reason 
is not known, although it has been suggested that perhaps the youth 
of the author stood in the way of his undertaking the task. He not 
only brought out this play, he also took the part of Cleon, and since 
no one was willing to make a mask that should represent the features 
of that well-known man, Aristophanes appeared without a mask, but 
with his face smeared with the lees of wine, after the old Bacchic 
custom, in such a way, however, as to suggest the man whom he was 
caricaturing. Nowhere is Cleon's name mentioned, possibly out of 
deference to some law forbidding that irreverent assault, but the attack 
lost none of its point by that prohibition ; a joke is not injured by 
being hidden, and skating on thin ice always attracts attention. The 
play is an improvement on the Acharnians ; Aristophanes had a single 
object in view, and every thing is brought to bear on that, and certainly 
it required much courage for a young author to attack, single-handed, 
the most powerful man in Athens. Cleon had made an enemy of the 
poet, not only by his political position, but also by trying to disprove 
the claims of Aristophanes to Athenian citizenship, in his wrath against 
the lost play, the Babylonians. The poet escaped legal defeat, but he 
maintained his grudge against the demagogue. One can not but feel 
an admiration for a state that permitted such absolute freedom as 
Athens enjoyed ; no comic poet ever had half such license as abounds 
here. An American political contest is coldly conventional by the side 
of it. Witty as Aristophanes was, it will, of course, be understood that 
the position which he held as a fearless opponent of what he regarded 
as serious political errors did not depend on his personal audacity 
alone, for he would have been powerless if he had not expressed a 
wide-spread feeling, and he would not have spoken so frankly if the 
condition of Athens had not been one that permitted the utmost free- 
dom of speech. Comedy existed, not as one form of literary amuse- 
ment, or even as a corrective for the universal weaknesses of human 



LICENES OF THE DRAMA— POLITICAL CRITICISM. 461 

nature, but as a direct expression of the keen political interest of an 
eager people, and it was this quality that it possessed as an exponent 
of public life that gave it its importance at the time and makes it 
valuable to us as a record of the people speaking through their favorite 
mouthpiece on current events. Only in freedom can such license 
exist, when there are no panicky terrors about propriety or safety. 
Long custom secured the writer from the charge of indecorum or 
undue harshness, and the result is that we see in his comedies the 
failures, or what were considered the failures, of Athens, as we see the 
lofty and noble aims in the tragedies. At no time in the world's history 
have there been known such vividness and intensity. 

The Knights opens with the grumbling of two distinguished generals, 
Nicias and Demosthenes, who are represented as slaves, over the 
unreasonableness of their master, Demos, in whom is personified the 
Athenian public, just as John Bull and Brother Jonathan respectively 
personify all Englishmen and all Americans. Demos has just been 
thrashing them when they run forth complaining and whimpering. 
Immediately a distinction is drawn between the two men : Demos- 
thenes is the bolder, and Nicias is less positive, an echo of his compan- 
ion, and these characteristics are maintained throughout. This is the 
way in which Demosthenes describes Demos, and pays his respects to 
Cleon, who is mentioned as the Paphlagonian. Demos, he says, is 

" a man in years, 
A kind of bran-fed, husky, testy character, 
Choleric and brutal at times, and partly deaf. 
It's near about a month now, that he went 
And bought a slave out of a tanner's yard, 
A Paphlagonian born, and brought him home, 
As wicked a slanderous wretch as ever lived. 
This fellow, the Paphlagonian, has found out 
The blind side of our master's understanding, 
With fawning and wheedling in this kind of way : 
' Would not you please go to the bath, sir? surely 
It's not worth while to attend the courts to-day.' 
And, ' Would not you please to take a little refreshment ? 
And there's that nice hot broth — and here's the threepence 
You left behind you — And would not you order supper? ' 
Moreover, when we get things out of compliment 
As a present for our master, he contrives 
To snatch 'em and serve 'em up before our faces. 
I'd made a Spartan cake at Pylos lately, 
And mixed and kneaded it well, and watched the baking; 
But he stole round before me and served it up. 

% * * 5fS * 5): 

Sometimes the old man falls into moods and fancies, 
Searching the prophecies till he gets bewildered ; 
And then the Paphlagonian plies him up, — 
Driving him mad with oracles and predictions, 
And that's his harvest." 



462 THE COMEDY. 

The Spartan cake refers to the success of Cleon in suddenly accepting 
command and capturing a number of Spartans at Pylos when he was 
urged to make good his statement of what the generals should do. 
Certainly, demagogues who do what they promise can afford to endure 
ridicule. 

Then, when Demosthenes gets hold of some wine, he finds some 
reports of the oracles which declare that Pericles shall have such and 
such successors, who shall be followed by 

" a viler rascal 
. . . In the person of a Paphlagonian tanner, 
A loud, rapacious, leather-selling ruffian." 

He, in his turn, is to be superseded by a sausage-seller. Thereupon 
there appears a sausage-seller to whom Demosthenes communicates 
the words of the oracle. 

Naturally the humble vendor of sausages is as much confused as 
elated at this swift promotion, and naturally has some doubts about 
his capacity. 

There is nothing easier, Demosthenes assures him : 

" Stick to your present practice : follow it up 
In your new calling. Mangle, mince, and mash, 
Confound and hack, and jumble things together ! 
And interlard your rhetoric with lumps 
Of mawkish sweet and greasy flattery. 
Be fulsome, coarse, and bloody ! — For the rest, 
All qualities combine, all circumstances, 
To entitle and equip you for command ; 
A filthy voice, a villainous countenance, 
A vulgar birth, and parentage, and breeding. 
Nothing is wanting — absolutely nothing." 

The sausage-seller still hesitates, saying : 

" For all our wealthier people are alarm 'd 
And terrified at him ; and the meaner sort 
In a manner stupefied, grown dull and dumb." 

Demosthenes says : 

" Why there's a thousand lusty cavaliers 
Ready to back you, that detest and scorn him ; 
And every worthy, well-born citizen ; 
And every candid, critical spectator ; 
And I myself ; and the help of Heaven to boot : — 
And never fear ; his face will not be seen, 
For all the manufacturers of masks, 
From cowardice, refused to model it. 
It matters not ; his person will be known : 
Our audience is a shrewd one — they can guess." 



RIDICULE OF CLE ON BY ARISTOPHANES. 



463 



Certainly the entrance of Cleon could not be more cleverly pre- 
pared, and he comes blustering on the stage, denouncing treachery 
and plots, so that the sausage-seller starts to run off, but Demosthenes 
encourages him, and the chorus of knights appears and begins to 
denounce Cleon : 



" Close around him, and confound him, the confounder of us all. 
Pelt him, pummel him and maul him ; rummage, ransack, overhaul him, 
Overbear him and outbawl him ; bear him down and bring him under. 
Bellow like a burst of thunder, robber ! harpy ! sink of plunder ! " etc. 

The choice of the knights for the chorus was most discreet, for this 
class represented the bitterest opposition to Cleon, and felt the strong- 
est yearning for his overthrow and the restoration of an oligarchy in 





PEDAGOGUE. 



which they should be powerful. Cleon had offended them by his 
devotion to the baser populace, and what we have already seen of 
the play shows that the fundamental discord is the familiar conflict 
between an antiquated aristocracy and a vulgar democracy. As we 
go on we shall see how the knights consented to overthrow their 
present antagonist by joining hands with a yet lower man, for political 
science teaches that men's actions at different periods of the world's 
history are apt to move in similar circles. 



4 6 4 THE COMEDY. 

The chorus tell the sausage-seller that if he will outdo Cleon in 
impudence the victory is his, and the fight begins and rages with 
the excess of violence which two such blackguards would naturally 
exhibit when entirely free from literary conventions. There is no 
limit to their foul-mouthed abuse of each other. Thus : 

Cleon. Dogs and villains, you shall die ! 
S. S. Ay ! I can scream ten times as high. 
Cl. I'll overbear ye, and outbawl ye. 
S. S. But I'll outscream ye, and outsquall ye. 
Cl. I'll impeach you, whilst abroad, 

Commanding on a foreign station. 
S. S. I'll have you sliced, and slashed, and scored. 
Cl. Your lion's skin of reputation, 

Shall be flay'd off your back and tanned. 
S. S. I'll take those guts of yours in hand. 
Cl. Come bring your eyes and mine to meet ! 

And stare at me without a wink ! 
S. S. Yes ! in the market-place and street, 
I had my birth and breeding too ; 
And from a boy to blush or blink, 
I scorn the thing as much as you." 

And so the two exchange the compliments of Billingsgate, rolling 
in the mire which serves as a magazine of offensive missiles, until Cleon 
hurries to the Senate to make short work of his adversary with all 
manner of accusations. 

At this point occurs the parabasis, in the more important part of 
which Aristophanes takes occasion to denounce Magnes, Crates, and 
Cratinus. His insults to Cratinus brought swift punishment, for in 
the next year, as has been said above, the old veteran woke up and 
wrote a play that won for him the first prize over the Clouds of Aris- 
tophanes. The poet also asks the favor of the gods and sounds the 
praises of the knights. When the play begins again the sausage-seller 
recounts how he got ahead of Cleon in securing the favor of the Sen- 
ate. Cleon, it seems, had burst in with the statement that the fisher- 
men had just landed with the largest haul of pilchards that had been 
known since the war began, and had proposed that they buy the fish 
while they were cheap. Then he moved that a general thanksgiving 
be proclaimed and a hundred oxen sacrificed. This was the bid of 
a demagogue, because it was well understood by the audience that 
only the thighs and fat were offered to the gods, and that all the rest 
fell to the poor citizens. Consequently the sausage-seller proposed a 
sacrifice of two hundred oxen, and so outdid Cleon. That baffled 
leader then proposed that the Senate delay their purchase of the fish 
to hear news of peace brought from Lacedaemon by a herald, but the 
Senate think it no time to listen to talk about peace when fish are so 



MEANING OF THE ACHARNIANS— PRAISE OF THE PAST. 465 

cheap — a pleasing slur on Athenian politics — and they adjourn. The 
sausage-seller bought all the fennel in the market to present to the 
populace for their fish-sauce, and so won their warm gratitude. The 
chorus are loud in their encouragement : 

" With fair event your first essay began, 
Betokening a predestined happy man. 
The villain now shall meet 

In equal war 
A more accomplished cheat, 

A viler far ; 
With turns and tricks more various, 
More artful and nefarious. 
— But thou ! 
Bethink thee now ; 
Rouse up thy spirit to the next endeavor ! 
— Our hands and hearts and will, 
Both heretofore and ever 

Are with thee still." 

The sausage-seller calls out : 

" The Paphlagonian ! Here he's coming, foaming 
And swelling like a breaker in the surf. 
With his hobgoblin countenance and look ; 
For all the world as if he would swallow me up." 

Not that Cleon was a Paphlagonian, but the word accused him of 
foreign birth, the charge he had brought against Aristophanes, and 
carried with it besides that insult — and the Paphlagonians bore an ill 
name — a punning allusion to his foaming, sputtering manner of speak- 
ing. Here he undertakes to browbeat the man who begins to appear 
like a formidable rival. He appeals to Demos himself, and it is 
decided that they shall settle their superiority before the people. Then 
there is no limit to their extravagance ; each tries to outdo the other 
with flattery of Demos, who is soon won by the sausage-seller's inge- 
nious pertinacity. Cleon in despair asks leave to get some oracles that 
support him, and his rival starts off to get his own, and they both 
return staggering under their loads. There is an amusing match 
between them that well illustrates the credulity of the people, and 
then the sausage-seller renews his bidding for the popular favor and 
the play ends with his unworthy triumph. The sausage-seller, or 
Agoracritus, according to his name, which is at last announced, makes 
Demos over anew by boiling him, and the Demos comes upon the 
stage in his rejuvenescence, determined that justice shall be done and 
peace made. This conclusion brings out clearly the serious meaning 
of the play, and the hopefulness of the conservative who sees the sole 
chance for the future in the glory of the past. Yet where else could 



466 THE COMEDY. 

he look for it ? The present, even allowing for violent exaggeration 
in his presentation of it, was enough to fill any one with despair. 

The question of the justice of Aristophanes will be decided by every 
one according to his feelings, so that any final judgment is impossible. 
Circumstances, at least, allow us to approve the clearness of his per- 
ceptions, for the glory of Athens died from the disease which he por- 
trayed. The vividness of his drawing needs no comment ; right or 
wrong, his political feeling and enthusiasm have remained unequaled. 
The Athenians could laugh at this rendering of their infamous weak- 
ness, and yet give him the first prize, a sure test of fair-mindedness or, 
possibly, of cynical indifference. 

Whatever the emotion by which the populace was swayed, the lines 
of Aristophanes, at least, show us the hot conflict that was waging 
between what was deemed venerable in the past and what was thought 
to be revolutionary in the present ; and the mirror that Aristophanes 
held up before his audience did not offend on the side of flattery. The 
play shows us how great was the commotion caused by the struggle 
between old principles and new methods, and indeed, to leave the 
political questions that it invokes, we may see in its composition the 
curious juxtaposition of Cleon and the allegorical figure of the people, 
personified as Demos, which bears witness to the preservation of an 
earlier literary form in their most vivid application to current events. 
Only in Shakspere can we find such indifference to literary by-laws, 
and even he did not enjoy the same absolute freedom that distinguishes 
Aristophanes, for whom no rules exist. The allegorical figure was, to 
be sure, a part of his inheritance, but the uses to which it was put 
must have been new, because never before had Athenian life known 
the intensity of its mingling glory and decay. Never were the heat 
and confusion of actual events so caught and set down as in his 
pathetic pages. While the tragedy preserves the remoteness of a 
ritual, the comedy is rank with life ; we see Athens as we see no other 
city of the past. Elsewhere we may behold the court, the church, or 
a mass of refined people; here we see the place itself. 

IV. 

His next play, the Clouds, is not so easily placed. It was brought out 
in 423 B.C., fourteen months after the Knights, and is devoted to turning 
Socrates to contempt. It failed of success on the stage, as has been 
noted above, and the text which has come down to us is a modified 
form of that in which it originally appeared. It is uncertain whether 
this failure was due to its unjust treatment of the great Greek philo- 
sopher or, as has been suggested, to mere lack of interest in a remote 



CONTEMPTUOUS TREATMENT OF SOCRATES— ITS CAUSE. 467 

theme or in its presentation. The first suggestion is an unlikely one ; 
that the Athenian public should have been sensitive to a contemptuous 
treatment of Socrates, when it laughed at a much more violent attack 
on a trusted leader like Cleon, appears impossible. There is no good 
reason to suppose that Socrates was in any way popular. He was, 
doubtless, a man of influence among a chosen band, but even in Athens, 
in spite of the exaggerations of its modern admirers, a man so full of 
the new spirit must have held the position which a philosopher always 
holds in a community that is vain of its own intelligence. His death 
was but the natural end of a life that aroused wrath whenever it 
emerged from total obscurity. No play of Aristophanes has proved 
so unfavorable as this to the fame of its author, who has appeared to 
posterity as the wilful calumniator of an honorable man. It was in 
this light, too, that he appeared in antiquity to the friends of Socrates. 
Plato, in his Apology, states that the fatal accusation that was brought 
against Socrates was prepared by Aristophanes twenty-four years 
before. Yet, even he brings Aristophanes into his Symposium among 
the friends of Socrates, with whom he discusses the nature of love. 
Although Plato would have no comic writers in his ideal state, he seems 
to have been able to endure them in actual life and to see in Aris- 
tophanes something more than the calumniator of his friend. It is 
said of Socrates that he attended the performance of the Clouds and 
watched with anger the way in which he was caricatured. What 
these statements establish is the intelligent comprehension that these 
distinguished men had of the nature of the comedy, as well as their 
superiority to personal malice. There can be but little doubt that 
Aristophanes, who was a firm conservative, meant to make a violent 
attack upon Socrates, and that he regarded the philosopher as a foe to 
the state. We must not forget that Socrates was not surrounded by 
that atmosphere of sanctity through which posterity sees him ; he was 
to Aristophanes but a fellow-citizen, and a dangerous one, and there is 
no hatred deeper than that which men feel for those of their con- 
temporaries whom they regard as bigoted conservatives or fantastic 
radicals, as the case may be. 

We must also make great allowance for the form of expression which 
lay ready to the hand of Aristophanes. What appears to us injustice 
and virulence was part of the game, was a legitimate and generally 
understood method of attack. We see something of the same kind in 
our political contests, and, to a much slighter extent, in the current 
badinage between men, which is always incomprehensible to those 
people who are accustomed to regard even jesting as a deadly insult. 
What is permissible in serious or humorous reproach is always a matter 
of convention, and probably nowhere has there been greater freedom 



468 THE COMEDY. 

than among the Greeks. Even with all allowance, it is hard to argue 
from our habits to the license of the old comedy ; we are so accustomed 
to the rule of literary decorum, to a keen sense of personal dignity 
which could never have been understood by an ancient Greek, to an 
artificial etiquette, that the difference appears insurmountable. The 
heat of the discussions between Milton and Salmasius, or between 
Bentley and his foes, is nearly beyond our comprehension, how much 
more the scorn of Aristophanes. The comedy was yet near its begin- 
ning when license was absolutely unbridled ; the utmost extravagance 
was its conventional language. So much was, perhaps, clear to all the 
men of that time, who saw and regretted that Socrates was attacked, 
but distinguished between that fact and the permissible exaggeration 
of the comedian's language. 

If we grant that Aristophanes enjoyed almost perfect freedom, 
we must in justice confess that he did not abuse it in this play. 
That it gives a faithful presentation of Socrates can not be affirmed. 
Yet we do not turn to modern burlesques for photographic likenesses 
of men who are caricatured in them. The well-known Pinafore can 
not be the only authority consulted by the future historian of the Eng- 
lish navy, and even the eccentricities of modern society are exagger- 
ated in Patience. In the same way, to compare great things with 
small, Aristophanes has misrepresented Socrates. The plot of the 
Clouds is very simple. Strepsiades, a dull-witted rustic, has a son 
Pheidippides — a name that suggests the greater elegance of that day, 
as the English names of streets and apartment houses suggest the cur- 
rent Anglomania — who has nearly ruined his father by his extrava- 
gance. The poor old man determines to visit Socrates, to learn from 
that inventor of novelties how he may overreach his creditors, for Soc- 
rates was famous for confounding those who would argue with him, 
and bringing forth the most unexpected results. The interest which 
some of the philosophers took in the study of physical science is here 
inaccurately ascribed to Socrates and turned to ridicule. Socrates 
himself, after a common fashion of Aristophanes — that of representing 
figures of speech by concrete images — is represented as suspended in 
a basket above the things of this world, and the companion of the 
Clouds, who form the chorus. The accusation of blasphemy which 
inevitably awaits men who try to give a scientific explanation of phe- 
nomena, is brought against Socrates. Strepsiades asks what moves 
the clouds. Is it Zeus? " Not at all," answers the philosopher, " it 
is ethereal Vortex." " Vortex? " says Strepsiades, "It had escaped 
my notice that Zeus did not exist and that Vortex now ruled in his 
stead." The humor here is certainly not gross, and inasmuch as in 
the existing parabasis the poet apologizes for his failure to win the 



THE DETERIORATION OF ATHENS. 469 

prize when the play was brought out, and makes a great point of his 
superiority in refinement to other writers of comedies, it is not impos- 
sible that his play failed from a very different cause than that which 
occurs to modern commentators, and that his jests were too subtle 
and too free from extravagance to please an audience that delighted 
in a seasoning of rank wantonness. Even Strepsiades is unable to 
profit from the teachings of Socrates, so he sends his son to learn the 
modern arts. Before he appears, a discussion, not unlike that in a 
mediaeval morality, takes place between the unjust and the just cause, 
personifications respectively of the new and the old manners. The 
young man proves an apt pupil, and when Strepsiades drives away 
his creditors with blows and fanciful arguments, he is himself beaten 
by Pheidippides, who proves conclusively that he is right, inas- 
much as Strepsiades beat him when a child. Strepsiades suggests that 
he may thrash his boy if he should ever have one ; " but," says Phei- 
dippides, " if I should not have one, I shall have wept for nothing, and 
you will die laughing at me." The end of the business is that Strep- 
siades burns down Socrates's " thinking-shop," and nearly kills the 
philosopher. 

Throughout the play much humor is devoted to attacks on the mod- 
ern thought. Many charges are unjustly laid on Socrates ; his teach- 
ing is confounded with that of the Sophists whom he detested, but the 
accusations of word-splitting and logic-chopping were doubtless not 
wholly without grounds. It is a very old-fashioned conservatism that 
inspired Aristophanes with the contempt that appears in the question 
of Strepsiades : " Do you think that Zeus always sends us new rain, 
or that the sun is always drawing the same water up again ? " and the 
answer of the money-lender that he neither knows nor cares. The 
allusions of Strepsiades to the unholiness of interest show us that the 
reformers of two thousand years ago were much like those of to-day. 
We see, too, the father's preference for ^Eschylus, and his scorn for 
the modern taste that preferred the dubious morality of Euripides ; 
everywhere Aristophanes strove to check the current ; he saw that the 
real grandeur of Athens was past, and that the condition of things in 
his own days was almost hopeless, but the cure that he advised was 
simply to do the impossible thing — to go back. 

V. 

The Wasps, 422 B.C., is a bold attack upon the decay of civic virtue 
among the author's fellow-citizens. The especial evil that Aristophanes 
denounced was one of growing mischief, namely, the way in which the 
administration of justice debauched the Athenians. The system was 



470 



THE COMEDY. 



a peculiar one : out of the twenty thousand, more or less, free citizens, 
there were always six thousand chosen by lot to form the ten tribunals 
before which all legal questions were brought for settlement. 
When Solon established this custom as a part of the close 
connection between citizenship and civic government, the 
judges or jurymen — for they in fact united both functions — 
were not paid. The position was both a duty and a privi- 
lege, and was often neglected in order to prevent the inev- 
itable waste of time, interruption of business, etc., which 
hera head, likewise in these later days seriously modify men's opinions 
of the advantages of trial by jury when they are so unfortu- 
nate as to be drawn to listen to tedious pleadings. To obviate this 
reluctance, the jurymen were paid first one obol, then two, and 




OBOL WITH 




ATHENIAN DEKADRACHMON. 



finally three a day. The obol was a little more than a cent, and the 
triobolus consequently less than four cents, but this sum, small as it 




ATHENIAN TETRADRACHMON. 

sounds, was probably equal to at least a dollar at the present day ; it 
was certainly an amount that satisfied the men who received it. It 
was, to be sure, not enough to tempt the richer citizens, but it tempted 
the lower classes, and threw the administration of justice into their 
hands. The demagogues who disposed of this sum naturally secured 



THE WASPS— JURY SYSTEM OF ATHENS. 471 

thereby the popular favor which they desired. The populace was 
enabled to live without other work than listening to the arguments 
in which it delighted, and its welfare depended on the growth of liti- 
gation. The play shows these things clearly, and adds an additional 
sting by charging the demagogues who pretended to spend a tenth 
part of the revenues of the state in paying the jurymen, with devoting 
only three-quarters of the sum to this end and keeping the rest. 

By the Wasps Aristophanes means these jurymen and judges, the 
dicasts, with their stings for inscribing their verdicts on the wax tablets 
as well as the whole populace, buzzing and idle; and in one part of the 
play, to avoid offense, he speaks of them as symbols to express the 
bravery and patriotism of the Athenians. 

The leading character of the play is Philocleon, or friend of Cleon, 
the familiar demagogue who had raised the pay of the dicasts to three 
obols. His son is Bdelycleon, or foe of Cleon; his right to this name 
will soon be made clear. The play opens with two slaves, Sosias and 
Xanthias, who are keeping guard, each armed with a spit, over the 
house of Philocleon, by order of his son, to keep the father from going 
to court. Bdelycleon, who is within, soon appears at a window and 
tells them that the old gentleman is trying to crawl through the hole 
of the kitchen boiler. In a moment his head appears there, and when 
they ask who's there, he answers, " I am smoke coming out." They 
stop up the chimney hole and lean against the door. Philocleon in 
vain appeals to them, urging that a certain man will be acquitted : they 
are obdurate. Then he pretends that he wants to get out in order to 
sell his ass, but, says Bdelycleon, " Could I not sell it as well ? " " Not 
as I could," answers the father. Bdelycleon replies, " No better," 
and leads the ass out. The ingenious Philocleon is, however, discov- 
ered concealing himself beneath the ass's belly. They ask him who 
he is ; he answers, imitating the adventure of Odysseus, " Nobody," 
but they drag him forth and thrust him back into the house. In a 
moment he is on the roof, and again they have to drive him in from 
there. At this point appears the chorus of waspish dicasts, trudging 
along before daybreak to their sitting; they are almost all old men, 
the younger ones being employed in military service. They are 
amazed at the tardiness of Philocleon, who was always prompt before 
this, and they propose to call him out by singing in front of his door: 

" Why comes he not forth from his dwelling ? 
Can it be that he's had the misfortune to lose 

His one pair of shoes ; 
Or, striking his toe in the dark, by the grievous 
Contusion is lamed, and his ankle inflamed ? 
Or, his groin has, it may be, a swelling. 
He of all of us, I ween, 



47 2 THE COMEDY. 

Was evermore the austerest and most keen. 
Alone no prayers he heeded : 
Whene'er for grace they pleaded, 
He bent (like this) his head, 
You cook a stone, he said. 
Is it all of that yesterday's man who cajoled us, 

And slipped through our hands, the deceiver, 
Pretending a lover of Athens to be, 

Pretending that he 
Was the first of the Samian rebellion that told us ? 
Our friend may be sick with disgust at the trick, 
And be now lying ill of a fever." 

He would be just that sort of man, they add. 

Philocleon peeps out of a window above, however, and confesses 
that he has been pining to get to them while listening through a crack, 
but that although he wishes to join them he can not get away ; that 
his son, who has fallen asleep at last, keeps him in confinement. The 
leader of the chorus asks if there is no hole through which he might 
escape, disguised in rags, like Odysseus, — a jest at Euripides. There 
is none, and, encouraged by the chorus, the old man tries to let himself 
down from the window by a cord. At the last moment Bdelycleon 
awakes and once more drives his father back. There is a fight between 
Bdelycleon and his forces and the chorus of dicasts, in which the wasps 
are unsuccessful. They give orders that Cleon be told, and accuse 
Bdelycleon of establishing a tyranny — the customary form of abuse. 
Bdelycleon retorts : Oh yes, everything you do not like is tyranny. 
Fifty years ago we never heard of it, but now it's cheaper than salt- 
fish. If any one prefers buying anchovies to buying sprats, the sprat- 
seller says : This fellow is buying sauce for his tyranny ; if any one 
asks for a leek to eat with his anchovies, the woman who sells herbs 
asks if it is for a tyranny ? 

This passage must have cut into the spectators of the play. At this 
point follows a long and important scene, in which the son urges his 
father to discontinue his work as a dicast and to live in comfort at 
home. He proves that the dicasts receive but one hundred and fifty 
out of two hundred talents, and that the rest lines the pockets of the 
demagogues. He promises his father to let him exercise his judicial 
functions in his own household, and, the chorus itself relenting, 
Philocleon yields to his son's arguments. A grotesque law-suit at 
once presents itself: The dog Labes has just stolen a Sicilian cheese, 
— a thin disguise of what was then a recent incident of the war, namely, 
that Laches, the commander of a fleet sent to Sicily, had embezzled a 
large sum of money, — and the trial goes on. Labes is acquitted by a 
mistake, and the unhappy Philocleon faints. 

In the parabasis Aristophanes recalls the old-time glory of the 



THE WASPS— ITS INOFFENSIVE SATIRE. 473 

Athenians in the Persian wars, when their stings were deadly weapons, 
" so that even now among the barbarians nothing has a braver name 
than the Athenian wasp." In those happy days things were very 
different : 

" 'Twas not then our manhood's test, 
Who can make a fine oration ? 
Who is shrewd in litigation ? 
It was, who can row the best ? " 

The rest of the play is made up with a representation of the pleasures 
of Philocleon, now that he has retired from his labors, and has become 
a fashionable creature. This gives Aristophanes an opportunity to 
offer the spectators the sort of merry-making and highly-seasoned 
revelry which formed an important part of the old comedy. The 
absence of this attraction from the Clouds may have contributed to 
its failure, and thus the author may have learned very vividly not to 
deny his audience the entertainment they required. The play ends 
with the most extravagant dancing. This termination had another 
advantage in softening any indignation that might have been felt with 
the more serious part of the comedy. Everywhere the fault-finding is 
enveloped with such an air of grotesqueness and good-humor that 
indignation would have been difficult. From the time when Philocleon 
says that he is the smoke trying to get out of the chimney,to the very 
end of the play, the serious motive of Aristophanes is enveloped in 
farce and caricature in such a way that serious opposition would have 
seemed pedantic and absurd. The earnestness and the facile invention 
of Aristophanes are most prominent in the play. 

VI. 

In the Peace, as its title shows, the author returns to his favorite 
subject, the mischief wrought by the Peloponnesian War. The play 
was brought out in 421 B.C., and secured only the second prize, Eupolis 
obtaining the first. The reader will readily comprehend the compar- 
ative failure of the play, for toward the end there appears a confusion 
which can be accounted for only on the supposition that we have in 
our possession a later version of the play which leaves many things 
unexplained, and even the first part, amusing as it is, is not so over- 
whelmingly rich in invention as the best of the work of Aristophanes ; 
it is the difference between what is good and what is very good. It is 
to be borne in mind that the play was acted just before a truce inter- 
rupted the war, and that it expressed the longing of the Athenians 
for a cessation of their miseries. Certainly these were not exaggerated 



474 



THE COMEDY. 



by the dramatist. The play opens with a countryman named Trygaeus 
making ready to ascend to heaven on a dung-butte. His purpose is 
to learn from Zeus himself why he has for so long a time afflicted the 
Athenians, and to remonstrate with him on his cruelty. For this pur- 
pose he gets on the back of the butte, thus caricaturing the tragedians, 
and notably Euripides, who in his Bellerophon employed a somewhat 
similar mechanical device. The daughters of Trygaeus, who find 
him in mid-air, in vain entreat him to return ; he spurs on his Pegasus 
and continues his ascent. Almost at once the scene changes, and he 
is found at the gates of heaven, where he confronts Hermes, who is at 
first disposed to harshness, but speedily relents on being bribed with 
some meat. The god, being thus appeased, readily answers the ques- 








THE SACRED MYRTLE. 



LAUREL DEDICATED TO ARTEMIS. 



EMBLEMS OF PEACE. 



tions of Trygaeus, and informs him that the gods, in their wrath at the 
unwisdom of Greece, have moved away to the remotest part of heaven 
and have left him there in charge of the pots and pans of the celes- 
tial housekeeping. They have left in their place War, to harry the 
Greeks as may to him seem good ; as for themselves, they want to 
get out of the way of seeing any more fighting and listening to 
supplications. This is not all. War has cast Peace into a deep 
cave and buried her beneath a huge pile of stones, and has further- 
more got a large mortar in which to bray the Hellenic cities. All 
that he lacks is a pestle, and he calls to his servant Tumult to fetch 
him one. Tumult hastens after one to Athens, but Cleon, the Athen- 
ian pestle, is dead — he fell at the battle of Amphipolis, as did Brasi- 



THE PEACE— ITS BEAUTY AND FRESHNESS. 



475 



das, the Lacedaemonian — so that 
Sparta is also unable to supply 
one. War and Tumult then go 
within in order to make a pestle, 
and Trygaeus takes advantage of 
their absence to summon the cho- 
rus to set Peace free. He fur- 
ther secures the silence of Her- 
mes by giving him a gold cup, 
and after strenuous exertions, 
Peace, Oporia, the goddess of 
fruits, and Theoria, the deity of 
processions and festivities, all come 
out from the cave, bringing with 
them the savors of autumn, of fes- 
tivals, fruits, comedies, strains of 
Sophocles, half-lines of Euripides, 
bleating sheep, and all the bless- 
ings of tranquillity. The makers 
of weapons are in despair, but all 
others are delighted. Trygaeus, 
who represents the countrymen 
whose farms had been every year 
devastated by the Spartans, longs 
to get out into the fields again, 
and to break up the ground anew. 
He appeals to the chorus to re- 
member their old course of life, 
the preserved fruits, the figs, the 
myrtles, the sweet new wine, the 
violet bed by the side of the well, 
and the olives they long for. It 
is these vivid little touches in 
Aristophanes that with their eter- 
nal beauty and freshness forever 
charm the reader, as they must 
have given the intensest delight 
to the Athenians themselves. 
Elsewhere in this play we find a 
similar passage, where the chorus 
expresses its joy at the chance to 
lay aside the helmet and to give up 
cheese and onions. "For I do not 




47 6 THE COMEDY. 

care for battles, but what I like is to sit at the fireside and drink with my 
companions, after lighting the dryest of last season's wood, roasting 
pease and putting acorns on the fire, at the same time kissing the Thracian 
maid while my wife is washing. And when the seed is in the ground, 
and the rain is falling, then is the time for some neighbors to look 
in and ask what we shall do. ' I have a mind to drink*,' he proposes. 
' Come, wife, roast some kidney beans, and mix some wheat with them, 
and bring out some figs, and let the girl call in Mauro from the field, 
for it's too wet to-day for him to be trimming the vines or grubbing at 
the roots. And I want some one to fetch from my house a thrush 
and the two spinks. And there was some beestings there, and four 
pieces of hare, unless the marten (the cat of antiquity) carried them off 
last evening — for I certainly heard something racketing about there. 
Give one of the pieces to my father and bring us the other three, and 
ask ^Eschinades to let us have some fruit-bearing myrtles, and at the 
same time, for it's just on the way, let some one ask Charinades to 
come and drink with us, while the weather is so favorable to the 
crops." In a similar fashion the joys of a warm, bright summer 
day are described, and are set in contrast to the odious incidents 
of war, when the husbandman sees his name down on the list for 
to-morrow's sally. Nothing is more noticeable than the charm of 
these passages except their rarity in all literature. The play ends with 
Trygseus giving himself up to pleasure with Peace. Aristophanes 
obeyed the unwritten law that demanded scenes of revelry, though 
here they are half-hearted and comparatively cold. The best part 
of the play is already told. The lesson, though veiled in broad 
comedy, had been given. 

VII. 

The Birds, which won the second prize in 414 B.C., appeared, it will 
be noticed, after a long interval, concerning which we have no informa- 
tion. At the time it was brought out, the affairs of the Athenians had 
only gone from bad to worse, but their hopes were now centered on 
the expedition to Sicily, which they trusted would restore and extend 
their power. In this fantastic play we see a caricature of extravagant 
plans and hopes, and a representation of the inevitable evils that 
accompanied the Greek civilization. Yet throughout the author is 
good-humored and gentle ; his bitterness is in perfect control. 

The play opens with two Athenian citizens, Peisthetairus and Euel- 
pides, wandering in a wild, remote region, carrying respectively a raven 
and a jackdaw, the motions of which they are observing as directions 
of their steps. Soon both the birds point upward, and they guess that 



THE BIRDS— SELECTIONS. 41 1 

they have arrived at the place where they wish to be ; consequently 
they knock. The door is opened by Trochilus, whose appearance star- 
tles them very much, and they are even more amazed when the royal 
hoopoe comes forth and asks their business, which is to find some 
country where the cares of life shall lie light upon them. The hoopoe 
suggests various places, which, however, the men object to, when sud- 
denly Euelpides asks how life is among the birds. 

" Pretty fair ; 
Not much amiss. Time passes smoothly enough, 
And money is out of the question. We don't use it." 

It at once occurs to Peisthetairus that it would be an excellent plan 
for them to build a city in mid-air. They can intercept the offerings 
of men to the gods from the commanding position : in short, it is an 
excellent plan. The hoopoe determines to consult the other birds to 
learn their opinion, and for this purpose he retires behind the scene, 
whence this song to the nightingale is heard to issue : 

" Awake ! awake ! 

Sleep no more, my gentle mate ! 
With your tiny tawny bill, 
Wake the tuneful echo shrill, 

On vale or hill ; 
Or in her airy rocky seat, 
Let her listen and repeat 
The tender ditty that you tell, 
The sad lament, 
The dire event, 
To luckless Itys that befell. 
Thence the strain 
Shall rise again, 
And soar amain, 
Up to the lofty palace gate, 
Where mighty Apollo sits in state 
In Jove's abode, with his ivory lyre, 
Hymning aloud to the heavenly quire ; 
While all the gods shall join with thee 
In a celestial symphony." 

This is followed by a flute solo imitation of the nightingale's call, 
and then by the hoopoe's summons to the whole feathered tribe to 
assemble : 

" Hoop ! hoop ! 
Come in a troop, 
Come at a call 
One and all, 
Birds of a feather, 
All together, 
Birds of a humble gentle bill 
Smooth and shrill, 



478 



THE COMEDY. 



izr: a b a g b 1 ■ <■ ' ■ » n - 




Dieted on seeds and grain, 
Rioting on the furrow'd plain, 

Pecking, hopping, 

Picking, popping, 
Among the barley newly sown," etc., etc. 

The birds gather in great numbers, 
and naturally, when they see the two 
men, imagine themselves entrapped ; 
the men are quite as much alarmed, 
but at length the truth is made 
known, and Peisthetairus expounds 
his plan. He explains to them with 
ready ingenuity that the birds are 
the earliest beings in the world, older 
than the gods themselves, and are 
powerful, although now shamefully 
maltreated : 

" Weak, forlorn, exposed to scorn, 
Distress'd, oppress'd, never at rest. 
Daily pursued with outrage rude, 
With cries and noise of men and boys, 
Screaming, hooting, pelting, shooting," etc. 

But with the city once built, they 
will send a herald to Zeus forbidding 
the gods to pass through their terri- 
tory, and to men in order to secure a 
good share of the sacrifices. They 
will also be able to aid the human race 
by devouring insects, telling secrets, 
which even in these later days are 
known to the little birds. The picture 
tempts them and the plan is swiftly 
carried out. The name of Cloud- 
cuckooland is given to the projected 
city, and at once a mockery of impor- 
tant ceremonies begins ; a sacrifice is 
caricatured ; a starving poet is on 
hand with his ready-made congratula- 
tory odes ; a soothsayer comes with 
vague oracles that might mean any 
thing, although they close with an 
order for a coat and shoes for the 
man who brings them : he is met, 



FERTILE IMAGINATIVE POWERS OF ARISTOPHANES. 479 

however, by opposition oracles that command that he shall be given a 
drubbing ; a ridiculous astronomer appears to make fantastic measure- 
ments ; absurd laws are proposed, and during all this turmoil the com- 
pletion of the city is suddenly announced. Then Iris appears on her 
way to command that men should sacrifice to Zeus ; she is turned 
back, and the city begins its municipal life. A young scapegrace is 
the first to appear, who is disappointed to find that he can not beat 
his father and thus lay his hands on his expected property ; a poet is 
denied a pair of wings with which to soar ; a sycophant is dismissed ; 
the gods themselves, who are starving, now that the sacrifices that 
they once received are, as it were, blockaded, have to come to terms, 
and the play ends with an epithalamium on the marriage of Peisthe- 
tairus with Basileia, or royalty, who manages the thunderbolts of Zeus, 
and controls every form of good government. 

The copiousness of the imagination of Aristophanes is certainly 
evident even in this cold outline ; quite as striking is the movement 
of the play, which knows no modification from the beginning to the 
end. These qualities have given it a fame in modern times greater 
than perhaps any other of this writer's comedies. Yet, possibly, 
although it is full of allusions that carried swift and clear meaning to 
the Athenians, its artificial and fantastic setting has given it a higher 
place in modern opinion than it won at home. We are so accustomed 
to having our literature different from life that we are disposed to 
admire less the vividness of Aristophanes and his pictures of every- 
day incidents than a carefully built-up vision of impossibilities such as 
this play presents. Yet, what the Athenians enjoyed here was prob- 
ably the vision of Athens that stood out even in cloudland. Even 
when most fantastic Aristophanes was true to life. 

VIII. 

In the Lysistrata, 411 B.C., we find him returning to his old subject, 
the desirability of peace, and he preaches the familiar doctrine in the 
most grotesque fashion. Lysistrata, the heroine, is disgusted with the 
unending martial zeal of the men, and summons the women together 
to take measures to bring the contestants to terms. Delegates 
assemble from Attica, Bceotia and the Peloponnesus, whom she per- 
suades to swear a solemn oath that they will live apart from their 
lovers and husbands until they consent to make peace. Meanwhile 
the women take possession of the Acropolis and lay hands on the 
treasury of the state, so that the men may be the sooner brought to 
terms. The chorus of aged Athenian men assembles with all sorts of 
combustibles in order to burn the women out from their stronghold ; 



480 



THE COMEDY. 



but they fail completely. All sorts of ludicrous and indescribable 
scenes follow until finally the men yield and Lysistrata is enabled 
to conclude a peace amid the general rejoicing of Spartans and 
Athenians. 

In the Thesmophoriazusse, or the Women at the Festival of Demeter, 
Aristophanes attacks his old enemy, Euripides, with as much venom 
as he had shown against those whom he had regarded as the open 

foes of the state. Whatever the rea- 
son, this play contains no allusion to 
politics — although, or possibly because, 
the condition of Athens was then, 410 
B.C., most unfortunate — it is a liter- 
ary warfare with which Aristophanes 
amused his fellow-citizens. Yet it is 
not without a serious purpose that he 
chose what might at first sight appear 
to be a trivial subject, for in his eyes 
Euripides was the exponent of the new 
false learning which cut into the very 
heart of Athenian life, and, farther than 
this, the play gave him an opportunity 
to draw a picture of the condition of 
women, a subject always attractive to 
any one with powers of invective. 

The plot of the play is ingenious. At 
the festival in celebration of the two 
goddesses, women from every tribe used 
to assemble to perform the mysterious 
rites. Men were carefully excluded, and 
the performances were kept a profound 
secret, but the poet ventures to sug- 
gest that they at least on this occasion are busying themselves about 
how they shall revenge themselves on Euripides for speaking ill of the 
sex in his tragedies. This at least is the fear that inspires Euripides 
to try to persuade his colleague, Agathon, to take advantage of his 
effeminate appearance and to join them at the festival where he may 
overcome the women's arguments. At the very beginning of the play 
Aristophanes ridicules Euripides as a student of the new learning, by 
representing him as a pedantic, logic-chopping sophist. His father-in- 
law, Mnesilochus, says, " You tell me that I must neither hear nor see "; 
to which Euripides makes answer, " The nature of each is distinct, of 
not hearing, and of not seeing." " How so ? " asks Mnesilochus, 




COLOSSAL STATUE OF DEMETER. 



THE WOMEN AT THE FESTIVAL OF DEMETER. 481 

" They were formerly distinguished in this way. For Ether, when it 
was first separated, and bore moving animals in itself, first contrived 
an eye for what should see, modeled after the face of the sun, and 
bored ears like a funnel." This is doubtless meant as a caricature of 
the new gropings after a scientific explanation of things, in which 
Euripides was much interested. It is all forgotten, however, as the 
play goes on, and Agathon first comes in for a good deal of contempt- 
uous treatment for his effeminacy. He absolutely declines to do what 
Euripides desires, so the tragic poet turns to Mnesilochus and asks him 
to disguise himself as a woman and go to the festival. Euripides has 
already rejected Agathon's proposal that he should go himself, on the 
grounds that he is well-known, is gray-haired, and wears a beard, but 
he has no mercy for Mnesilochus, whom he compels to array himself 
like a woman, and to shave himself ; all of which preparations are made 
with abundant farcicality upon the stage. Mnesilochus, after he is 
made ready, consents to go, after he has secured a promise of aid from 
Euripides whenever it should be necessary. 

The next scene is at the temple of Demeter, where the women are 
assembled and soon begin to discuss the misdeeds of Euripides. He 
has aroused the evil suspicions of men, so that they are prone to put 
the worst interpretation on the most trivial circumstances ; the old 
men, warned by one of his lines, no longer marry young girls ; they 
all put seals and bolts on the women's apartments ; in short, he has 
made women's lives intolerable, and the question before the meeting 
is what shall be done with this arch-enemy. Other women have their 
say ; they accuse him of teaching that there are no gods, so that the 
business of making myrtle-wreaths is ruined. There is nothing but 
denunciation of the unhappy poet until Mnesilochus undertakes his 
defense. He tells a long story which is cunningly devised to point 
out how many peccadilloes had escaped the notice of Euripides ; in a 
word, how much worse women were even than he had described them, 
and argues that they have no reason to be angry with the poet, since 
they have done so much worse. His words excite a great deal of con- 
fusion, and the women at once begin to suspect some treachery, and 
that he is a man in disguise. Mnesilochus, when he is once started, 
pours out a long list of black crimes, how the women give their lovers 
the broken victuals and say the cat ate them, etc. He only infuriates 
his hearers, and when Clisthenes, who is permitted to be present, such 
is his effeminacy, brings them the news that Euripides has sent his 
father-in-law to be with them, they are beside themselves with wrath. 
It is with extreme jollity that they detect the trick of Mnesilochus, 
and swear vengeance. They determine to burn him alive, and in order 
to secure a hostage against ill-treatment, he seizes a child that one of 



4^2 THE COMEDY. 

the women is carrying, which turns out to be a wine-skin dressed up to 
resemble a baby — an unfortunate discovery, for on this day abstinence 
from wine was enforced upon the celebrants — and drains it himself. 
He is at their mercy, and tries to devise some plan of escape from his 
recollection of similar difficulties in the plays of his son-in-law. In the 
parabasis, the leader of the chorus of women praises her own sex at 
the expense of the men, but this forms but a brief interruption. 
Mnesilochus pretends that he is Helen in the tragedy of Euripides 
already discussed, and there is a curious jumble of lines parodying that 
play ; and when Euripides, who appears as Menelaus in the Helen, tries 
to lead his father-in-law off, he is stopped by the entrance of the police- 
man who comes to fasten the aged offender to a plank. Then, Avhile 
Mnesilochus is secured like Andromeda, Euripides comes in disguised 
as Perseus, but he can do nothing, and he tries once more in the form 
of Echo, in which he repeats the words of his relative and of the police- 
man, who is much baffled. Finally, the poet comes back as an old 
woman in company with a dancing-girl, who by her wiles distracts the 
policeman, so that Mnesilochus can be freed and escape. This device 
also serves to give the end of the play its rollicking sportiveness. 

A more absurd play was never written ; it is a farce from beginning 
to end, and one abounding with the happiest invention and the most 
remorseless caricature. As political references became dangerous, and 
the peril of Athens muzzled Aristophanes and prevented him from 
referring to the rulers and their misdeeds, he was yet free to attack 
the modern spirit as this was illustrated by Euripides. In his hope- 
less struggle to make time stand still, he saw no difference between 
political decay and. the general movement of literature. Certainly 
this error, if it was an error, was a natural one ; the confusion of 
Athenian politics, the lack of lofty principles, the desperate though 
hopeless groping for any means to attain success, were certainly 
marks of degeneracy. And just as the sublimity of the tragedies of 
^ischylus was the literary expression of the old-time hopefulness, the 
more complicated interests of the later days found their expression 
in the drama of Euripides, who developed the notion of individu- 
ality — which was the disintegration of the former intellectual and social 
unity — and represented the pathetic incidents of the old myths as if 
the simpler statement of them could no longer interest his audience. 
His devotion to the humble beginnings of science, that put physical 
cause and effect in the place of divine control, seemed to Aristophanes 
as wrong as his interest in the new-fangled rhetoric which succeeded 
the former majesty and directness. Yet what we can see in the per- 
spective of more than two thousand years was invisible to Aristo- 
phanes, who beheld the firm ground slipping from beneath his feet, 



EFFECT OF ARISTOPHANES' SATIRE— THE FROGS. 



483 



and who saw no other hope than in restoring, or trying to restore, the 
old convictions that had made Greece great. These had done a great 
work ; experiments were perilous. In fact, however, his attempt was 
the most hopeless of experiments, and his endeavors to restore the 
vanished past remain as the most tragically sad appeals that Greek 
literature knows. Wit, pathos, earnestness, were powerless to stop the 
stream of time. The denunciations of Aristophanes, though power- 
less to check the current of contemporary thought, at least besmirched 
the reputation of Euripides for a long time. Even now, or at any rate 
until very recently, his shoulders were burdened with the whole 
responsibility for the swift decay of Hellenic principles. 



IX. 

In the Frogs we find Aristophanes still pursuing the same foe with 
relentless energy. Whereas in theThesmophoriazusae he had attacked 




SCENE FROM THE FROGS. 



him with all the revelry of a farce, here he constructs a comedy with 
the utmost care for the purpose, not of merely ridiculing him, but of 
destroying his reputation. It is a serious onslaught that he makes 
with the aid of his incomparable humor. 

The play was brought out in 405 B.C., shortly after the death of 
both Sophocles and Euripides, when the tragic stage had lost both 
the writers who alone formed its glory ; Dionysus is represented as 
mourning the absence of deserving competitors, and determined to 
try to bring back from the lower regions a poet who should renew 
the ancient successes. The play opens with Dionysus, arrayed like 



4^4 THE COMEDY. 

Heracles, in company with his slave Xanthias entering before the 
temple of Heracles, and exchanging gentle jokes over the poor jests 
of the other writers of comedy. When they have called forth Her- 
acles, Dionysus announces his intention to fetch Euripides from the 
other world, and asks Heracles, who is familiar with the way, which is 
the best road to take ; Heracles recommends hanging, poison, or leap- 
ing from a high place. In the next scene they are on the banks of the 
Styx, which they cross with an accompaniment of ludicrous adven- 
tures. Once on the other side their fate is even more absurd ; Diony- 
sus appears as a coward and makes Xanthias put on the lion's robe and 
take the club — both formed the distinguishing guise of Heracles — 
while he appears as a slave ; all of which is a caricature of the tragedies 
that dealt with journeys to the nether regions, besides being capital 
farce. It all brings them to the abode of the dead, where a public con- 
test is to decide the relative superiority of ^Eschylus and Euripides. 
vEschylus had held the position which was now disputed by Euripides, 
who had roused the interest of the mob in his behalf. Sophocles was 
content with a seat by the side of ^Eschylus. There is a great deal of 
clapper-clawing on the part of Euripides, who speaks of his predeces- 
sor's frequent habit of introducing a character who long remained silent, 
and then, after long songs from the chorus, would utter a dozen words 
as big as bulls wearing bows and crests, tremendous fellows of terrific 
aspect, wholly unfamiliar to the spectators ; he then boasts the supe- 
riority of his own method, when he used to let some character explain 
everything in a prologue, and employing plain language so that any one 
could understand him, instead of using monstrous words. yEschylus 
makes a comparison between the Athenians of his time and those 
whom Euripides had left, greatly to his own advantage, and claims for 
himself and his work the merit of forming better citizens: in his Seven 
against Thebes, he says, 

" Inspired each spectator with martial ambition, 
Courage, and ardor, and prowess, and pride." 

Now Euripides has altered all this : 

" He has taught every soul to sophisticate truth ; 
And debauched all the bodies and minds of the youth ; 
Leaving them morbid, and pallid, and spare ; 
And the places of exercise vacant and bare : 
The disorder has spread to the fleet and the crew ; 
The service is ruined, and ruined by you— 
With prate and debate in a mutinous state ; 
Whereas, in my day, 'twas a different way ; 
Nothing they said, nor knew nothing to say, 
But to call for their porridge, and cry ' Pull away.' " 



METHOD AND DESIGN OF THE ATTACKS ON EURIPIDES. 485 

From general denunciations they soon come to special criticisms oi 
each other's work. yEschylus quotes a few lines of his own work : 

" From his sepulchral mound I call my father 
To listen and hear " 

" There's a tautology, 
' To listen and hear,' " — 

cries Euripides. 

Then the later poet brings examples of his own superiority, which 
^Eschylus criticises in his turn. Then they exchange abuse of each 
other's musical powers. Finally, Dionysus produces a huge pair of 
scales to weigh the sentences of the two combatants, and those of 
yEschylus tip the scale, so that Dionysus decides to carry yEschylus 
back with him and to leave Euripides in the nether world. Thus the 
inferiority of the later poet is distinctly shown, or at least his inferi- 
ority in the estimation of Aristophanes. 

The care which the author has shown in his attack on Euripides is 
certainly interesting, and his bitterness in carrying on his warfare after 
his antagonist had died has been much blamed in modern times. It 
is probable, however, that this objection could not have been felt so 
keenly by Aristophanes, or he would not have prejudiced his own 
cause by hounding the dead. Just as he enjoyed unequaled freedom 
in abusing the living, he doubtless was at liberty to speak his mind 
about those in the grave, for it must be remembered that these were 
not supposed to be lifted above discussion by removal to a happier 
land. However this may be, the fact that Aristophanes made this 
deliberate and careful onslaught upon Euripides, and, instead of con- 
tenting himself, as he had done previously, with mere farcical ridicule, 
gave his reasons, with a show of impartiality letting Euripides defend 
his work, seems to show, what in fact we know, that this tragedian held 
a high place in the public estimation ; possibly his recent death at a 
foreign court had reminded the Athenians how great a man they had 
lost, and had given them a vivid sense of the injustice of his foes. To 
counteract this feeling, it may be supposed, Aristophanes wrote the 
Frogs, which is perhaps the most carefully contrived of all his plays. 
Nowhere else is the main design of the comedy less entrusted to mere 
high spirits and ridicule. 

The chorus of frogs, it should be added, were not seen ; the proper 
chorus consisted of the votaries of Dionysus. This last-mentioned 
body had a meaning for the Greeks, who understood allusions to the 
initiated and to the mysteries that are obscure to us. 

It is to be noticed, also, that Aristophanes is by no means dis- 
posed to give ^Eschylus undiscriminating praise ; he points out 



4^6 THE COMEDY. 

that poet's faults, without virulence, but with a manifest desire for 
impartiality. 

Scene. — EURIPIDES, BACCHUS, AESCHYLUS. 
Eu. Don't give me your advice, I claim the seat 
As being a better and superior artist. 
B. What, ^Eschylus, don't you speak? You hear his language. 
Eu. He's mustering up a grand commanding visage 

— A silent attitude — the common trick 
That he begins with in his tragedies. 

B. Come, have a care, my friend — You'll say too much. 
Eu. I know the man of old — I've scrutinized 

And shewn him long ago for what he is, 

A rude unbridled tongue, a haughty spirit; 

Proud, arrogant, and insolently pompous ; 

Rough, clownish, boisterous and overbearing. 
ALs. Say'st thou me so ? Thou bastard of the earth, 

With thy patch'd robes and rags of sentiment 

Raked from the streets and stitch'd and tack'd together ! 

Thou mumping, whining, beggarly hypocrite ! 

But you shall pay for it. 
B. {in addressing JEschylus attempts to speak in inore elevated style). There 
now, JEschylus, 

You grow too warm. Restrain your ireful mood. 
ALs. Yes ; but I'll seize that sturdy beggar first, 

And search and strip him bare of his pretensions. 
B. Quick ! Quick ! A sacrifice to the winds — Make ready ; 

The storm of rage is gathering. Bring a victim. 
ALs. A wretch that has corrupted every thing; 

Our music with his melodies from Crete ; 

Our morals with his incestuous tragedies. 
B. Dear, worthy vEschylus, contain yourself, 

And as for you, Euripides, move off 

This instant, if you're wise ; I give you warning. 

Or else, with one of his big thumping phrases, 

You'll get your brains dash' d out, and all your notions 

And sentiments and matter mash'd to pieces. 

— And thee, most noble ^Eschylus (as above), I beseech 
With mild demeanour, calm and affable 

To hear and answer. — For it ill beseems 

Illustrious bards to scold like market-women. 

But you roar out and bellow like a furnace. 
Eu. (in the tone of a town blackguard working himself up for a quarrel). 

I'm up to it.' — I'm resolved, and here I stand 

Ready and steady — take what course you will ; 

Let him be first to speak, or else let me. 

I'll match my plots and characters against him ; 

My sentiments and language, and what not : 

Ay ! and my music too, my Meleager, 

My ^Eolus and my Telephus and all. 
B. Well, JEschylus, — determine. What say you ? 
ALs. (speaks in a lone of grave manly despo?idency). 

I wish the place of trial had been elsewhere, 

I stand at disadvantage here. 
B. As how? 

ALs. Because my poems live on earth above, 

And his died with him, and descended here, 

And are at hand as ready witnesses ; 

But you decide the matter: I submit. 



EXTRACT FROM THE FROGS. 4 8 7 

B. {with official pertness and importance). 

Come — let them bring me fire and frankincense, 

That I may offer vows and make oblations 

For an ingenious critical conclusion 

To this same elegant and clever trial — 

( To the Chorus?^ 

And you too, — sing me a hymn there. — To the Muses. 

Chorus. 
To the Heavenly Nine we petition, 
Ye, that on earth or in air are for ever kindly protecting the vagaries of learned 

ambition, 
And at your ease from above our sense and folly directing, (or poetical contests 

inspecting, 
Deign to behold for a while as a scene of amusing attention, all the struggles of style 

and invention,) 
Aid, and assist, and attend, and afford to the furious authors your refined and 

enlighten'd suggestions ; 
Grant them ability — force and agility, quick recollections, and address in their 

answers and questions, 
Pithy replies, with a word to the wise, and pulling and hauling, with inordinate uproar 

and bawling, 
Driving and drawing, like carpenters sawing, their dramas asunder : 
With suspended sense and wonder, 
All are waiting and attending 
On the conflict now depending ! 

B. Come, say your prayers, you two before the trial. 

\/E$chylus offers incense. 
JEs. O Ceres, nourisher of my soul, maintain me 
A worthy follower of thy mysteries. 
B. {to Euripides?) There, you there, make your offering. 
Eu. Well, I will ; 

But I direct myself to other deities. 
B. Heh, what? Your own ? Some new ones? 
Eu. Most assuredly ! 

B. Well ! Pray away, then — to your own new deities. 

{Euripides offers incense. 
Eu. Thou foodful Air, the nurse of all my notions ; 
And ye, the organic powers of sense and speech, 
And keen refined olfactory discernment, 
Assist my present search for faults and errors. 

Chorus. 
Here beside you, here are we, 
Eager all to hear and see 
This abstruse and mighty battle 
Of profound and learned prattle 
— But, 1 as it appears to me, 
Thus the course of it will be ; 
He, the junior and appellant, 
Will advance as the assailant, 
Aiming shrewd satyric darts 
At his rival's noble parts ; 
And with sallies sharp and keen 
Try to wound him in the spleen, 
While the veteran rends and raises 
Rifted, rough, uprooted phrases, 
Wielded like a threshing staff 
Scattering the dust and chaff. 



4 88 



THE COMEDY. 



B. Come, now, begin, dispute away, but first I give you notice 
That every phrase in your discourse must be refined, avoiding 
Vulgar absurd comparisons, and awkward silly joking. 
Eu. At the first outset, I forbear to state my own pretensions; 

Hereafter I shall mention them, when 

his have been refuted ; 
After I shall have fairly shown how 

he befool'd and cheated 
The rustic audience that he found, 
which Phrynichus bequeathed 
him. 
He planted first upon the stage a figure 

veil'd and muffled, 
An Achilles or a Niobe, that never 

show'd their faces ; 
But kept a tragic attitude, without a 
word to utter. 
B. No more they did; 'tis very true. 
Eu. — In the meanwhile the Chorus 

Strung on ten strophes right-on-end, 
but they remain'd in silence. 
B. I liked that silence well enough, as 
well, perhaps, or better 
Than those new talking characters — 
Eu. That's from your want of judg- 

ment, 




SERVANT MASK. 



Believe me. 
B. Why, perhaps it is ; but what was his intention ? 
Eu. Why, mere conceit and insolence : to keep the people waiting 
Till Niobe should deign to speak, to drive his drama forward. 
B. O what a rascal ! Now I see the tricks he used to play me. 
[ To Aeschylus, who is showing signs of indignation by various contortions. 
— What makes you writhe and wince about ? — 

Because he feels my censures. 
— Then having dragg'd and drawl'd along, half-way to the conclusion, 
He foisted in a dozen words of noisy boisterous accent, 
With lofty plumes and shaggy brows, mere bugbears of the language, 
That no man ever heard before. — 

Alas ! alas ! 
{to Aeschylus). Have done there ! 



Eu. 



JEs 
B 



Eu. He never used a simple word. 



B. 

Eu. 



JEs. 
B. 
Eu. 
JEs. 
Eu. 



(to jEschylus). Don't grind your teeth so strangely. 

But "Bulwarks and Scamanders " and "Hippogrifs and Gorgons." 
" On burnish'd shields emboss'd in brass ; " bloody, remorseless phrases 
Which nobody could understand. 

Well, I confess, for my part, 
I used to keep awake at night, with guesses and conjectures 
To think what kind of foreign bird he meant by griffin-horses. 
A figure on the heads of ships; you goose, you must have seen them. 
Well, from the likeness, I declare, I took it for Eruxis. 
So ! Figures from the heads of ships are fit for tragic diction. 
Well then — thou paltry wretch, explain. What were your own devices ? 
Not stories about flying-stags, like yours, and griffin-horses ; 
Nor terms nor images derived from tapestry Persian hangings. 
When I received the Muse from you I found her puff'd and pamper'd 
With pompous sentences and terms, a cumbrous huge virago. 
My first attention was applied to make her look genteelly ; 
And bring her to a slighter shape by dint of lighter diet : 
I fed her with plain household phrase, and cool familiar salad, 
With water-gruel episode, with sentimental jelly, 



EXTRACT FROM THE FROGS. 4^9 

With moral mincemeat ; till at length I brought her into compass ; 

Cephisophon, who was my cook, contrived to make them relish. 

I kept my plots distinct and clear, and, to prevent confusion, 

My leading characters rehearsed their pedigrees for prologues. 
Ms. 'Twas well, at least, that you forbore to quote your own extraction. 
Eu. From the first opening of the scene, all persons were in action ; 

The master spoke, the slave replied, the women, young and old ones, 

All had their equal share of talk — 
Ms. Come, then, stand forth and tell us, 

What forfeit less than death is due for such an innovation ? 
Eu. I did it upon principle, from democratic motives. 

B. Take care, my friend — upon that ground your footing is but ticklish. 
Eu. I taught these youths to speechify. 
Ms. I say so too. Moreover 

I say that — for the public good — you ought to have been hang'd first. 
Eu. The rules and forms of rhetoric, — the laws of composition, 

To prate — to state — and in debate to meet a question fairly : 

At a dead lift to turn and shift — to make a nice distinction. 
M.S. I grant it all — I make it all — my grounds of accusation. 
Eu. The whole in cases and concerns occurring and recurring 

At every turn and every day domestic and familiar, 

So that the audience, one and all, from personal experience, 

Were competent to judge the piece, and form a fair opinion 

Whether my scenes and sentiments agreed with truth and nature. 

I never took them by surprise to storm their understandings, 

With Memnons and Tydides's and idle rattle-trappings 

Of battle-steeds and clattering shields to scare them from their senses ; 

But for a test (perhaps the best) our pupils and adherents 

May be distinguished instantly by person and behaviour ; 

His are Phormisius the rough, Meganetes the gloomy, 

Hobgoblin-headed, trumpet-mouth' d, grim-visaged, ugly-bearded ; 

But mine are Cleitophon the smooth, — Theramenes the gentle. 
B. Theramenes — a clever hand, a universal genius, 

I never found him at a loss in all the turns of party 

To change his watch-word at a word or at a moment's warning. 
Eu. Thus it was that I began, 

With a nicer, neater plan ; 

Teaching men to look about, 

Both within doors and without ; 

To direct their own affairs, 

And their house and household wares ; 

Marking every thing amiss — 

" Where is that ?" and — " What is this? " 

" This is broken — that is gone," 

'Tis the modern style and tone. 
B. Yes, by Jove — and at their homes 

Nowadays each master comes, 

Of a sudden bolting in 

With an uproar and a din ; 

Rating all the servants round, 

" If it's lost, it must be found. 

Why was all the garlic wasted ? 

There, that honey has been tasted : 

And these olives pilfer'd here. 

Where's the pot we bought last year ? 

What's become of all the fish ? 

Which of you has broke the dish ? " 

Thus it is, but heretofore, 

The moment that they cross'd the door, 

They sat them down to doze and snore. 



49° THE COMEDY. 

Chorus 
" Noble Achilles ! You see the disaster, 
The shame and affront, and an enemy nigh ! " 
Oh, bethink thee, mighty master, 
Think betimes of your reply ; 
Yet beware, lest anger force 
Your hasty chariot from the course ; 
Grievous charges have been heard, 
With many a sharp and bitter word, 
Notwithstanding, mighty chief, 
Let Prudence fold her cautious reef 
In your anger's swelling sail ; 
By degrees you may prevail, 
But beware of your behaviour 
Till the wind is in your favour : 
Now for your answer, illustrious architect, 
Founder of lofty theatrical lays ! 
Patron in chief of our tragical trumperies ! 
Open the floodgate of figure and phrase ! 

JEs. My spirit is kindled with anger and shame, 
To so base a competitor forced to reply, 
But I needs must retort, or the wretch will report 
That he left me refuted and foil'd in debate ; 
Tell me then, What are the principal merits 
Entitling a poet to praise and renown ? 

Eu. The improvement of morals, the progress of mind, 
When a poet, by skill and invention, 
Can render his audience virtuous and wise. 

JEs. But if you, by neglect or intention, 

Have done the reverse, and from brave honest spirits 
Depraved, and have left them degraded and base, 
Tell me, what punishment ought you to suffer ? 
B. Death, to be sure ! — Take that answer from me. 

JEs. Observe then, and mark, what our citizens were, 
When first from my care they were trusted to you ; 
Not scoundrel informers, or paltry buffoons, 
Evading the services due to the state ; 
But with hearts all on fire, for adventure and war, 
Distinguish'd for hardiness, stature, and strength, 
Breathing forth nothing but lances and darts, 
Arms and equipment, and battle array, 
Bucklers, and shields, and habergeons, and hauberks, 
Helmets, and plumes, and heroic attire. 
B. There he goes, hammering on with his helmets, 
He'll be the death of me, — one of these days. 

Eu. But how did you manage to make 'em so manly, 
What was the method, the means that you took ? 
B. Speak, ^Eschylus, speak and behave yourself better, 
And don't in your rage stand so silent and stern. 

JEs. A drama, brimful with heroical spirit. 

Eu. What did you call it ? 

JEs. " The Chiefs against Thebes," 

That inspired each spectator with martial ambition, 
Courage, and ardour, and prowess, and pride. 
B. But you did very wrong to encourage the Thebans. 
Indeed, you deserve to be punish'd,you do, 
For the Thebans are grown to be capital soldiers, 
You've done us a mischief by that very thing. 

JEs. The fault was your own, if you took other courses ; 
The lesson I taught was directed to you : 



EXTRACT FROM THE FROGS. 49 1 

Then I gave you the glorious theme of " the Persians," 

Replete with sublime patriotical strains, 

The record and example of noble achievement, 

The delight of the city, the pride of the stage. 
B. I rejoiced, 1 confess, when the tidings were carried 

To old King Darius, so long dead and buried, 

And the chorus in concert kept wringing their hands, 

Weeping and wailing, and crying, Alas ! 
JEs. Such is the duty, the task of a poet, 

Fulfilling in honor his office and trust. 

Look to traditional history — look 

To antiquity, primitive, early, remote : 

See there, what a blessing illustrious poets 

Conferr'd on mankind in the centuries past, 

Orpheus instructed mankind in religion, 

Reclaim'd them from bloodshed and barbarous rites ; 

Musaeus deliver'd the doctrine of medicine, 

And warnings prophetic for ages to come ; 

Next came old Hesiod, teaching us husbandry, 

Ploughing, and sowing, and rural affairs, 

Rural economy, rural astronomy, 

Homely morality, labour and thrift ; 

Homer himself, our adorable Homer, 

What was his title to praise and renown ? 

What, but the worth of the lessons he taught us, 

Discipline, arms, and equipment of war ? 
B. Yes, but Pantacles was never the wiser ; 

For in the procession he ought to have led, 

When his helmet was tied, he kept puzzling, and tried 

To fasten the crest on the crown of his head. 
JEs. But other brave warriors and noble commanders 

Were train'd in his lessons to valour and skill ; 

Such was the noble heroical Lamachus ; 

Others besides were instructed by him ; 

And I, from his fragments ordaining a banquet, 

Furnish'd and deck'd with majestical phrase, 

Brought forward the models of ancient achievement, 

Teucer, Patroclus, and chiefs of antiquity ; 

Raising and rousing Athenian hearts, 

When the signal of onset was blown in their ear, 

With a similar ardour to dare and to do ; 

But I never allow'd of your lewd Sthenobceas, 

Or filthy, detestable Phaedras — not I — 

Indeed, I should doubt if my drama throughout 

Exhibit an instance of woman in love. 
Eu. No, you were too stern for an amorous turn, 

For Venus and Cupid too stern and too stupid. 
JEs. May they leave me at rest, and with peace in my breast. 

And infest and pursue your kindred and you, 

With the very same blow that despatch'd you below. 
B. That was well enough said ; with the life that he led, 

He himself in the end got a wound from a friend. 
Eu. But what, after all, is the horrible mischief ? 

My poor Sthenobceas, what harm have they done ? 
JEs. The example is follow'd, the practice has gain'd, 

And women of family, fortune, and worth, 

Bewilder'd with shame in a passionate fury, 

Have poison'd themselves for Bellerophon's sake. 
Eu. But at least you'll allow that I never invented it, 

Phaedra's affair was a matter of fact. 



49 2 THE COMEDY. 

vEs. A fact with a vengeance ! but horrible facts 

Should be buried in silence, not bruited abroaa, 

Nor brought forth on the stage, nor emblazon'd in poetry. 

Children and boys have a teacher assign'd them — 

The bard is a master for manhood and youth, 

Bound to instruct them in virtue and truth, 

Beholden and bound. 

Eu. But is virtue a sound ? 

Can any mysterious virtue be found 
In bombastical, huge, hyperbolical phrase? 

JEs. Thou dirty, calamitous wretch, recollect 
That exalted ideas of fancy require 
To be clothed in a suitable vesture of phrase ; 
And that heroes and gods may be fairly supposed 
Discoursing in words of a mightier import, 
More lofty by far than the children of man ; 
As the pomp of apparel assign'd to their persons, 
Produced on the stage and presented to view, 
Surpasses in dignity, splendour, and lustre 
Our popular garb and domestic attire, 
A practice which nature and reason allow, 
But which you disannull'd and rejected. 

Eu. As how? 

JEs. When you brought forth your kings, in a villanous fashion, 
In patches and rags, as a claim for compassion. 

Eu. And this is a grave misdemeanour, forsooth ! 

JEs. It has taught an example of sordid untruth ; 
For the rich of the city, that ought to equip, 
And to serve with, a ship, are appealing to pity, 
. Pretending distress — with an overworn dress. 
B. By Jove, so they do ; with a waistcoat brand new, 
Worn closely within, warm and new for the skin ; 
And if they escape in this beggarly shape, 
You'll meet 'em at market, I warrant 'em all, 
Buying the best at the fishmonger's stall. 

JEs. He has taught every soul to sophisticate truth ; 

And debauch'd all the bodies and minds of the youth ; 
Leaving them morbid, and pallid, and spare ; 
And the places of exercise vacant and bare : — 
The disorder has spread to the fleet and the crew ; 
The service is ruin'd, and ruin'd by you — 
With prate and debate in a mutinous state ; 
Whereas, in my day, 'twas a different way ; 
Nothing they said, nor knew nothing to say, 

But to call for their porridge and cry, ' Pull away.' 

****** 

y£s. Can the reprobate mark, in the course he has run, 
One crime unattempted, a mischief undone ? 
With his horrible passions, of sisters and brothers, 
And sons-in-law tempted by villanous mothers, 
And temples defiled with a bastardly birth, 
And women, divested of honour or worth, 
That talk about life as " a death upon earth ;" 
And sophistical frauds and rhetorical bawds ; 
Till now the whole state is infested with tribes 
Of scriveners and scribblers, and rascally scribes — 
All practice of masculine vigour and pride, 
Our wrestling and running, are all laid aside, 
And we see that the city can hardly provide 
For the Feast of the Founder, a racer of force 
To carry the torch and accomplish a course." 



CHANGES IN SOCIAL AND POLITICAL CONDITIONS. 493 



X. 

The Ecclesiazusae, which was brought out about 392 B.C., is a bold 
caricature of the socialistic plans that were long talked about before 
they were finally stated with the perfection of literary art by Plato in 
his Republic. The women have determined to capture the public 
assembly in order to pass a law placing the control of the state in their 
hands. They consequently get up early, array themselves in their hus- 
bands' clothes, fasten on false beards, and before the men can find 
proper garments the women have voted to oust them from the govern- 
ment. This first part of the play is full of amusing, if coarse, comedy ; 
in the second half the women exhibit a delightful wildness. No 
sooner have they obtained command than they become wildly lawless, 
and Aristophanes points out, with great plainness, the disturbing effect 
of practical socialism. To the end, it will be noticed, the poet remains 
a sturdy and militant conservative, who pathetically struggles against 
the tendencies of his time, against the weakening virtue and the failing 
forces of Athens. 

In the last play, the Plutus, which had been brought out earlier, in 
408 B.C., and in its present form twenty years later, in 388 B.C., we see the 
effects of the peace and the oligarchy in behalf of which Aristophanes 
had fought all his life. Among the changes that they produce is the 
suppression of the ancient comedy. It had shown itself a tremendous 
means of attack. The license that it had required from the Dionysiac 
fertivals had proved a dangerous, if ineffectual, weapon, that left deep 
wounds even if it did not kill. After the melancholy end of the war, 
and the capture of Athens by Lysander, in 404 B.C., the government of 
the Thirty forbade the parabasis, and reference to contemporary events 
or to living persons by name. This law put an end to the old comedy, 
and in its place arose what is called the middle comedy, which in time 
developed into the new comedy, which concerned itself with private 
life and domestic scenes and characters. In other words, comedy 
ceased to be a part of Greek life in which public matters were dis- 
cussed and denounced ; it became a literary work, a work of art. This 
is an enormous step, although it is one that the conventional form of 
most of our modern literature disables us from judging as it deserves. 
We are so accustomed to literature that for centuries has grown up as 
an art that any form that has served to portray life as it is and the 
emotions that do not have to be acquired out of books is almost 
incomprehensible. 

Other things led to the change. The material ruin diminished the 
amount that could be spent on the chorus, and from that time the 



494 THE COMEDY. 

comedy changed materially. What the middle comedy was may be 
conjectured from the only example of it that has reached us, the Plutus 
of Aristophanes. Here at once we are confronted with abstract per- 
sonification. There are no more of the cutting vilifications of living 
men, although it is yet Aristophanes who writes, and there must have 
been many who detested the keenness of his satire, which is scarcely 
less effective for abusing whole classes of citizens. 

The play opens with Chremylus on the stage and his slave Carion, 
who explain that the master, being puzzled by the prosperity of the 
vicious and the low state of the virtuous, has been to consult the oracle 
of Apollo as to whether it would not be advisable for him to bring up 
his son as a rascal if he wishes to fit him well for this life. The god 
in answer has bidden him to follow the first person whom he meets on 
leaving the temple. This person is the god of wealth, Plutus. He is 
blind, having been robbed of his sight by Zeus, out of ill will toward 
mankind, " For when I was young," he explains, " I threatened to 
go only to the just, wise, and well-behaved ; so he blinded me that I 
might not be able to distinguish any of these." He further says in 
answer to questioning, that if he should recover his sight he would once 
more shun the wicked and seek the good, for it's a long time since I 
have seen these last. " That's not surprising," says Chremylus, " for 
neither have I, and my sight is good." Chremylus promises to restore 
the blind god's vision, although the deity fears the wrath of Zeus ; he 
is consoled, however, when the infinite power of riches is explained to 
him. For money rules the world ; men grow weary of love, bread, 
music, sweetmeats, honor, cheese-cakes, valor, dried figs, ambition, 
barley-cake, military command, lentil soup, but never of money. " If 
a man has accumulated thirteen talents, he is only the more anxious 
to get sixteen. And when he has done this he yearns for forty, or he 
says that life is not worth living." Astute observers have seen some- 
thing of the same kind in modern times. 

All of these things are brought out in a brilliant, swift, conversational 
exchange of question and answer which foreboded the pure dialogues 
of the younger men. 

Plutus consents to remain with Chremylus, who summons his neigh- 
bors to take part in his good fortune. These men are the chorus. In 
order to perform his part of the engagement, Chremylus is anxious to 
have Plutus pass a night in the temple of ^Esculapius, but they are 
prevented by a woman who turns out to be Poverty, and we are in the 
full stream of allegory. This familiar deity proves that, by encouraging 
toil, she it is who really does the world good ; when men are poor, they 
are free from vices ; poor orators are just, it is only when they have 
become rich that they are vicious, but Chremylus refuses to be con- 



THE MIDDLE COMEDY. 495 

vinced, even if she convince him, and he drives her away. She says 
that some day or other he will be sending for her. " Then you will 
come fast enough," is his reply. Meanwhile he will enjoy his wealth. 

The god is freed from his blindness, the account which Chremylus 
gives his wife of the cure serving as an excellent opportunity for ridi- 
cule of those butts of comic writers, the physicians. Plutus and 
Chremylus at once become very popular, now that everything goes 
well. 

Then follow a succession of scenes to represent the altered con- 
dition of things, after the usual method of Aristophanes. A just man 
seeks to have his coffers, emptied by his generosity, once more filled. 
The informer comes to grief. The rich old woman is shamed. Finally 
Hermes appears, having abandoned Zeus, to take service with Plutus 
and Chremylus. He thinks that he will fare better in his new place, 
and he is devoured by hunger, now that men have ceased to worship 
anything but wealth. A priest of Zeus also comes in to aid, offers his 
services to the new religion, and with this final victory the play ends. 

Of the other plays of Aristophanes only a few fragments are left ; it 
is from the eleven pieces just briefly described that an opinion of the 
old Athenian comedy must be formed. Even the best translations 
suffer from the evaporation of his brilliant style, and of his wit which 
covers all forms from the pun to the most extravagant invention. The 
fact that he was absolutely out-spoken distinguishes him from all other 
writers of comedy. There was nothing that he could not say ; ribaldry 
had no terrors for him, and this frankness of speech was but part of 
the absolute freedom which he enjoyed. No subject was too sacred ; 
the men in power, the follies of the Athenians, their fickleness and 
weaknesses were legitimate objects of his wit. The comedy was, in 
fact, an important constituent of the Athenian state, not a literary 
luxury, as it has too often been in modern times. It represented, one 
might almost say, the public conscience, and as a man's conscience 
freely discusses all his deeds without fear or favor, so the wit of Aris- 
tophanes played over the whole state, correcting, purging, deriding, 
and guiding. This coherence of the comic theatre with the national 
life explains what later generations have blamed in the pieces of Aris- 
tophanes ; for only when literature becomes conventional may it 
artificially be adapted to suit the requirements of taste. So long as 
it is living, conventions have no power over it. 

Extracts and descriptions do no sufficient justice to the personal 
quality of the poet's style. Much of his wit, many of his allusions to 
contemporary circumstances, are lost to us through our meagre knowl- 
edge of the affairs concerned, but enough is left to delight us. The 
terrible keenness of the wit of Aristophanes is most striking ; nothing, 



49 6 



THE COMEDY. 



for instance, could exceed the force of letting Cleisthenes, in the 
Thesmophoriazusae, appear among the women assembled for sacred 
rites, when all the men were rigidly excluded. He was so notoriously 
effeminate that he was not accounted a man. The treatment of Cleon 
is a notorious example of the same bitterness. As to the fun, nothing 
more need be said. The mechanical presentation of the jokes is an 
important element. This is exemplified by the appearance of Socrates 
in a basket " among the clouds," and in the Peace by the way in which 
that goddess is hauled out of the pit by the different nations. First, 
the Boeotians will not pull, then the Argives are sullen, then the 
Megarians ; it is not until the rustics get hold that the goddess stirs. 
When it is remembered that these drastic, vivid images were accom- 





CONVENTIONAL COMEDY FIGURES. 



panied with a dialogue and with a wealth of lyric verse, one may 
faintly imagine the vividness of the pictures presented to the delighted 
Athenians. The thousand-sidedness of the poet, the manifold applic- 
ability of his wit, place him among the eternals. 

But all these piecemeal definitions of his qualities, and the skeletons 
of his plays with a few stray shreds hanging on them, desiccated in 
translation, fail to give a sufficient impression of the vast importance 
of this great man. The dissection of his character into separate 
characteristics, the examination and classification of the subdivisions 
of his boundless wit and enthusiasm fail to represent his bulk and 
prominence, just as the words in a dictionary fail to convey an adequate 
notion of the style of a good writer. It was the cumulative force of 



7HE DISTINGUISHING CHARACTERISTICS OF ARISTOPHANES. 497 

these manifold powers that made Aristophanes so imposing a per- 
sonage. He represents not wit or satire, but half of the divided spirit 
of Athens, and to speak of him merely as a great writer is to do him 
but scant justice. In fact, eminent as were his literary achievements 
and those of his illustrious contemporaries, the age of literature had 
not begun ; that came later, when the significance of writers as men 
sank beneath the importance of their style or grace, or good taste. 
Wherein Aristophanes is great is as the personification of an important 
part of the Athenian people : his hatred of the destructive war, his 
detestation of the new intellectual ferment, his love of ^Eschylus and 
the former grandeur of Athens, his abhorrence of the democracy, are 
beyond and outside of his personal feelings ; they count as the expres- 
sion of a large part of an eager people, just as truly as the sublimity 
of ^Eschylus is the direct resultant of the lofty confidence of the 
successful city, and the vividness of Euripides is Athens ripened by 
disaster. 

While nothing is more marked than the intensity of the feeling of 
which he was the mouthpiece, nothing is more tragic than the apparent 
failure of this comedian's earnest effort t-o put back the hands of the 
clock. Everything that wit and intellectual force could supply was 
brought to bear against the irresistible force of events, but without 
other result than to slacken somewhat the speed of their movement. 
The aim that Aristophanes represented was a hopeless one ; and its 
only effect may be seen in the satisfaction with which the later 
Athenians regarded their past ; and the brilliancy of the hopeless 
contest that he waged is the measure of the opposition, as we see in 
Euripides a good part of the feeling against which it contended. With 
its wisdom we have nothing to do, but we might as well expect to be 
able to overlook the force of inertia in physics as not to find con- 
servatism in human affairs. 

To be sure conservatism does not always have an Aristophanes 
fighting for it, nor is it always opposed by a Euripides, although some 
such contest is always going on. Here it is its intensity that is most 
striking. We are all so accustomed to finding some of the qualities 
of the Golden Age ascribed to this period, that insensibly there has 
grown up a tolerably distinct impression of the Athenians as a number 
of literary and artistic enthusiasts who knew no guile, and no blacker 
feeling than such as enlivened a vigorous competition in intellectual 
work. Yet, Aristophanes shows very clearly how much humanity 
there was in human nature at this time, and how widespread the 
turmoil and confusion that one might imagine to have been delicious 
sympathy and smoothness. The mistake very naturally results from 
the easy exaggeration of the merits everywhere conspicuous in Greek 



49 8 THE COMEDY. 

work, or at least through a very easy transition from its merits to 
the virtues of those who did the work, and have been readily raised 
to the rank of demi-gods. This exaggeration has been much aided by 
the fact that the knowledge of Greek has been a privilege of, one 
might almost say, a caste that has never been averse to magnifying 
the importance of its acquirements, and so readily falls into over- 
enthusiasm. The glory of the Greeks throws a brilliant light on those 
who are familiar with what they did, and separates them from the 
common herd, and they have readily assigned to the ancient Greeks 
qualities which they imagined that they themselves possessed, and 
first among these was immunity from the ordinary weaknesses of 
human nature. 

In fact, however, there is no time of ideal perfection ; always and 
everywhere good work connotes hot opposition, and here the conflict 
raged between two parties of something like equal ability. In Aris- 
tophanes we see the beginning of the end, with his abhorrence of the 
present and his adoration of the irrevocable past. All that was new 
he detested, and he struggled against every change, continually utter- 
ing the advice which seemed simple enough, though it was impossible ; 
to repeat what had been done in the awakening after the Persian wars. 
He held himself aloof from what he regarded as new heresies, yet he 
could not escape the influence of the age in which he lived. Its spirit 
was in the very air he breathed as well as Euripides, and in spite of all 
his efforts he too paid his tribute to the interests of his time. We see 
this illustrated by the appearance in his comedies of individual char- 
acters alongside of such allegorical abstractions as Peace, Tumult, 
Demos, and Dicaeopolis, or Bdelycleon ; and it is even more visible in 
the acknowledgment of the existence of a new spirit that animates his 
denunciation of its perils. Whereas Euripides was contented with the 
opportunity that its presence gave him for independent thought, Aris- 
tophanes saw how ill it agreed with the former supremacy of Athens. 
He foresaw that the old limits could not contain what really required 
the making over of the whole civilized world before it should find its 
proper home, and consequently he despaired. It is this despair which 
gives his wit the poignant sadness of a jest uttered on a deathbed. It 
is as pathetic as the powerless eloquence of Demosthenes or the wise 
folly of Plato. Nor is it sad only in the light of subsequent history ; 
his note is that of one who has undertaken an impossible and hopeless 
task. 

In the Plutus, as has been said, there is a change ; not only in the 
characters who are distinguished by the possession of proper names, 
vague creations, but in the Informer, the Old Woman, etc., we find 
types, not persons, and it may not be unfair to suppose that the 



DECADENCE OF THE POLITICAL DRAMA.— THE MIDDLE COMEDY. 499 

authority of Aristophanes has in the past furnished encouragement 
to that unvivid form of composition. Before the end of the Pelopon- 
nesian war, the comedy, as a part of the functions of the state, had a 
great political value ; after that time it gradually shrivelled into 
a means of amusement. Yet the Greeks remained Greeks, even 
when Hellas ceased to be Hellas. Their literary taste did not die with 
their political supremacy. The great animating principle vanished, 
but the comedy became something that we can admire, although it 
survives only in fragments and imitations ; these possess the charm 
of perfect work, from which we can guess the original beauty, just 
as we find the traces of artistic wonder in the scanty ruins of a Greek 
city. They all bear the touch of the artist : a single word uttered 
by a beautiful voice tells us what the voice is. 

XL 

The middle comedy, to adopt an old but possibly pedantic distinc- 
tion, was an adaptation of the comedy to its new conditions. From 
the discussion of affairs of state it turned to the subjects that alone 
interested a defeated people, to personal jests, to ridicule of the cur- 
rent philosophy, to portraying manners and forms of thought. Par- 
ody became a popular form. The names of forty writers have come 
down to us, but of their work we have to judge from the titles and a 
handful of fragments. From these we may gather that with the ex- 
tinction of the political and wider ethical tendencies of the comedy 
there survived what is but a subordinate part of the plays of Aris- 
tophanes, namely, the amusing representation of familiar types. Thus, 
parasites and tradespeople were continually derided. Authors were 
caricatured, not as in the Frogs, with reference to their influence on 
the state, but merely with regard to their literary skill. The philos- 
ophers were laughed at, but merely for their personal eccentricities, 
not for their perilous teachings. 

Gradually the middle comedy developed into the new comedy, which 
abandoned the treatment of general vague types, those of the street 
and market-place, as we may call them, for the domestic comedy which 
dealt with complications of family life, thus establishing the laws of 
comedy down to the present time. This change in the purview of 
comedy from the criticism of large questions of politics and social 
ethics to the discussion of the affairs of private life, was one that 
belongs strictly to the inevitable processes of literature. We saw a 
similar modification of the tragedy, from the grand elemental sim- 
plicity of ^Eschylus, with his lofty ethical purpose, through the more 
human rendering of Sophocles, to the complicated manipulation of 



5°° THE COMEDY. 

Euripides, who seeks to express the infinite variety of the nature of 
men and women, and his perversion of the old myths. The uni- 
form tendency of both tragedy and comedy was from the application 
of general principles to the study of individual interests and com- 
plications. The analogy between the development of the tragedy 
and that of the modern novel has been already spoken of ; when 
for the tragedy we substitute the comedy, the change becomes even 
clearer. From the vague teachings of honor and chivalry in the 
old romances to the modern study of individuals the path is clear 
and straight, and in the development of the treatment of the indi- 
vidual during the last century we may see the same process going on 
with ever greater thoroughness. 

The most celebrated writers of the new comedy, which lasted from 
about 340 B.C. to 260 B.C., were Philemon and Menander, whose works 
are unfortunately lost, so that it is necessary to judge of them from 
the extracts and from the Roman imitations made by Plautus and 
Terence. As to the fragments, it is as if posterity were to form an 
opinion of the English dramatists from the illustrative extracts in 
Johnson's and Richardson's dictionaries. A manuscript of Menander's 
plays is said to have existed in Italy shortly before the invention of 
printing, but if this statement is true, the manuscript is lost and proba- 
bly for ever. This author was born in Athens in the year 342 B.C., the 
year in which Epicurus was born, and he flourished in the period that 
followed the death of Alexander the Great. He died in 291 B.C. Phil- 
emon was a contemporary of his, and lived nearly a century. While 
Philemon secured more praise from his contemporaries than did his 
rival, it is to the more refined wit of Menander that posterity turned 
with the greater admiration. Curiously enough, it was not his repu- 
tation as a wit that inspired the collection of extracts that were made 
by his admirers, so much as a respect for the wisdom of his wise moral 
sayings. The compactness and literary refinement of these were great. 
Yet as a comedian he delighted every one. His plays were vivid rep- 
resentations of the decaying society of his time. The subordinate posi- 
tion of reputable women kept them out of the plays as out of public 
view, just as unmarried girls are not the subject of modern French 
novels, and assert their prominence in American fiction as they do in 
American life. Menander's dramatis per sonce consisted of courtesans, 
slaves, market-men, youths and their fathers, the familiar figures of 
every-day life in that city that had lost its political importance, while 
the keen intelligence of the Athenians still survived with no sufficient 
aim to inspire or direct it. The mere enjoyment of life had taken the 
place of a willing or enforced political energy ; the men simply lived, 
devoted to pleasure, and to an elegant dilettantism. What in mod- 



ENERVATED LIFE OF THE ATHENIANS. 



5oi 



ern life we see common to a small number of idle and aimless rich 
men, was there the rule. The vast body of slaves supported the free 
population in comparative luxury, affording them, at the best, leisure 
for the indulgence of intellectual tastes. Hence nothing was more 




MENANDER. 

{Statue in the Vatican.) 



popular than this new comedy, with its marvellous literary brilliancy, 
its refinement and ingenuity, as well as its constant allusion, not so 
much to the facts of life as to the possibilities of the current life of 



5° 2 THE COMEDY. 

the time. This literary quality is one that must be continually 
borne in mind. Absolute realism demands in the writer, and con- 
sequently in the society in which he lives, firm belief in the people 
and scenes described. The cynical and wearied public to which 
Menander belonged, and for which he wrote, believed only in the 
necessity of amusement ; they would have cared as little to have 
the unrelenting grimness of life represented in a play as to find it 
disturbing their selfish, pleasure-loving existence ; what they demanded 
was everything that observation and ingenuity could devise for puz- 
zling their keen wits, while flattering and entertaining them. They 
knew no real interests, no hot enthusiasms, and any presentation of 
them would have been as much out of place as would a court-suit at 
a modern political caucus. The bluntness of Aristophanes revolted 
them ; the love of polish and refinement held them in as firm a grip 
as the force of etiquette holds conventional people — indeed, the two 
are twin brothers ; and the intellectual astuteness that developed the 
possible intricacies of an ingenious plot alone delighted them. They 
praised Menander's truth to nature, and justly, but it was the nature 
that they alone knew. The influence of this inspired the Roman 
comedians, as has been said, and thus formed the most important 
model for the reviving comedy of the Renaissance, and we may see in 
much modern comedy how well ingenuity of invention has thrived 
when higher interests were silent. Indeed, just as the melodrama of 
the romantic movement exaggerated the emotions and aspirations of 
that period, so the new comedy represented with corresponding inex- 
actness the wit and intellectual curiosity of the age of Menander. 

Not only does its contrast with the comedy of Aristophanes make 
vivid the difference between a period when literature is the utterance 
of people living and one when the political feeling is extinct, it also 
marks the opening of a new epoch when literature became literary. 
That it should ever be anything else may seem at first sight the height 
of paradox, especially when for centuries the aim of all cultivation has 
been to produce something that should be true to abstract principles 
of art, and hence as remote from life as everything intentionally unreal 
must always be. Still, these false ideals have shown signs of disappear- 
ance, and it has become evident that even artificial flowers may fade, 
long-lived as they have proved to be. In other words, in this comedy 
we have the beginning of a period when literature showed itself as an 
art, a device for entertainment, instead of an expression of the people 
thinking, and for more than two thousand years its main excellence 
has been held to lie in this accidental quality. The one test that has 
been continually applied has been the accordance of the method of 
saying things with rules drawn from the examples of other utterances ; 



FALSE VIEWS OF LITERATURE.— ARTIFICIALITY . 503 

their direct excellence has been infinitely less regarded. It has been 
supposed that outside of the relation of things there existed an inhe- 
rent quality in the words themselves and in their arrangement which, 
when properly supervised, made literature. Hence have arisen such 
familiar notions as poetic diction, poetic license, and the countless pet- 
rifactions that are catalogued in books on rhetoric. The rules of good 
taste have been established by literary legislators, as if what is called 




CHARACTER MASKS IN THE NEW GREEK COMEDY. 

good taste were anything but the raw edge, the vanishing line, of our 
sympathies, and only what lies inside this limit has been adjudged to 
be the proper domain of literature. The early Greeks knew no such 
boundaries ; with them literature was, as it should be, as broad as life 
itself ; belief and doubt, joy and sorrow, enthusiasm and contempt, all 



5°4 THE COMEDY. 

found natural expression without reference to a literary code. Con- 
sider for a moment the intellectual fertility of Aristophanes, with what 
freedom from trammels he praises and denounces, how unfettered his 
choice, whether he speaks of private or public wrong, caricatures Euri- 
pides or the whole people of Athens, and sings the glories of the past. 
Every man had the same choice ; nothing was too high or too low for 
the Greek to mention ; it was only necessary that anything should 
have existed as fact or thought, to have its literary expression 
justified. 

In the middle ages we see something very like the same exemption 
from a priori limitations, combined, however, with a crudity which the 
Greeks never knew. Yet, even this race, obviously, felt the tendency 
of excellent work to acquire authority over later men ; but while the 
general current moved in certain set forms, intellectual freedom 
existed as long as its twin-brother, political freedom, lasted. It is only 
in strict obedience to natural causes that the fewer, because earlier, 
intellectual interests of the Greeks should have left an insufficient 
number of models for future copying. The complications of modern 
life have augmented the demand for outlets of expression, in exactly 
the same way that the fine arts have developed in directions unsus- 
pected by Greek sculptors, and that modern politics has to grapple with 
problems undreamed of by Plato and Aristotle, and that philosophy 
and science have snapped their old bonds ; every change has required 
an enlargement of the old outlets. Yet it is notorious that a strong 
tendency has always existed to force men to keep to the former 
methods, and that now the man who says that properly literature is as 
great as life speaks heresy, for it is thought that literature can only 
exist in or near what for the Greeks, to be sure, was freedom, but is a 
narrow field for modern men. 

Nevertheless, to say that these men who seek to limit the methods 
of expression are actuated by the best principles is unnecessary ; they 
have the good of letters near at heart. They fervently believe that 
salvation lies only in listening to them, and they have behind them 
centuries of progress at which they can and do " point with pride." 
To say that their opinions have had a long life is only another way of 
saying that they are or have been serviceable and inevitable, but it 
would be hasty to affirm that literature can always be controlled by 
the rules drawn from the study of the works of the past. The last 
century undermined general principles that had been commonly 
accepted ; the present one is turning its nefarious attention to axioms 
in geometry, metaphysics, and science, and universally we may observe 
the tendency of scientific thought to outrun its limits and to make its 
way into every department of intellectual activity, so that the notion 



LIMITING LITERATURE— ESTIMATE OF ARISTOPHANES. 505 

that literature must concern itself only with things of apparent beauty 
meets many foes who ask annoying questions about what beauty is, 
where one must stand to determine it, whether agreement can be 
found about it, and, finally, whether what is called beauty is in fact 
any thing more than the expression of the limitations of any man's 
comprehension. It may in time be seen that the only test to be 
applied is that of the truth of the delineation, and that arbitrary 
exclusion is as impossible for literature as it is for thought. 

Certainly, those who are most ready to deny these suggestions will 
agree that Aristophanes is the first of comedians. The very corner- 
stone of their views is the enormous superiority of the Greeks, whom 
we are bidden ever to imitate ; yet, to take that writer alone, his plays 
abound with matter that completely contradicts their notions of good 
taste. Of that quality he took no account ; even the name did not 
then exist ; it was the life of his time that inspired him, with all its 
thousand interests, pettinesses, weaknesses, and enthusiasms, not a 
code of laws. It was Menander who stands as the best representative 
of the graciousness of the tamer methods. To call him the first, 
however, would be inexact, because, in fact, so gradual are the pro- 
cesses of growth that no one man is ever really the first to do any- 
thing ; already in Euripides we may perceive the paraphernalia of 
tragedy lying heavy upon his brisk treatment of contemporary men 
and women, just as in Shakspere's As You Like It, the conventional 
dramatic form is at times an awkward encumbrance for the lightness 
of the comedy, as when (act ii., scene iii.) Adam offers his services 
to Orlando : 

" I have five hundred crowns, 
The thrifty hire I saved under your father, 
Which I did store to be my foster-nurse 
When service should in my old limbs lie lame 
And unregarded age in corners thrown : 
Take that, and He that doth the ravens feed, 
Yea, providently caters for the sparrow, 
Be comfort to my age ! Here is the gold ; 
All this I give you. Let me be your servant : " etc., etc., 

when the speech wears a heavy load of conventional rhetoric. 

Menander freed himself of what was cumbersome for Euripides, and 
it is easy to see that his grace and lightness could not fail to delight 
his contemporaries and successors. Wit and wisdom were the indis- 
tinguishable qualities of his plays, for they were combined in a most 
attractive clearness that well represented the alert thought and lucid 
expression of the Athenians. And at once the vivid pictures of 
society, the infallible touch which he laid on human weaknesses, the 
graceful allusions that praised or blamed, with infinite tact, acquired 
that charm which exquisite work always exercises on sensitive souls- 



506 THE COMEDY. 

By its side the tremendous, untiring greatness of Aristophanes seemed 
a coarse natural power without fascination. We all know the contrast. 
The bane of literature has long been that it has blinded its admirers 
to the world, which by its side appears rank and vulgar. 

At the moment when Menander was writing, the active life of 
Hellas had come to an end, and instead of its past glory there existed 
a pride in one form of intellectual activity, in literary excellence, 
which at once acquired authority over every existing and following 
civilization c This is not to be wondered at ; yet it must be remem- 
bered that it was the literary literature, so to speak, that held this 
position rather than that which was the direct expression of life. It 
was that to which Rome succumbed, and that has come into the 
control of modern tastes. 

Euripides, as we have seen, was Menander's intellectual father ; it 
was from him that he inherited his literary style and a tireless interest 
in contemporary life. The laws of tragedy limited the older poet to 
the field of venerable myths, but they could not restrain him from 
treating these in a familiar way. The prominence that he gave to 
women in his plays, and the great weight that he laid on human 
passion, paved the way for Menander. Thus, what could be further 
from the old tragedy than Medea's wail over the miserable lot of 
women who have to buy a husband with a large dowry ? If the marriage 
is an unhappy one, she goes on, the wife must pine away at home, 
while the husband is free to seek distraction without. In the Andro- 
mache, again, Hermione warns husbands against the danger of letting 
other women visit freely his wife, whom they will fill with pernicious 
ideas. It was modern Athens, and no land of heroes and heroines, that 
he had in mind. Although tragedy thus ventured on the territory of 
comedy, comedy left untouched the nobler side of human nature, and 
treated only the vices and weaknesses of society. Its first duty was to 
amuse, and the correction of faults was carefully hidden beneath the 
effort to entertain. The plots were simple : the young man of fortune 
would be hopelessly in love with some unworthy woman who would 
turn out to be the daughter of some free-born citizen, and the demands 
of respectability would be at once appeased. The discovery, too, 
would be made by the advent of some stranger who took the place of 
the dens ex machina who was let down from heaven to unravel the 
plots of Euripides. Some such little surprise the spectator knew 
beforehand that he would find in the play, just as the inveterate 
reader of French novels knows that he will find some complications 
between man, wife, and lover in the yellow-covered story that is sure 
to present the old plot in a slightly different light. In both cases the 
artificiality is hidden by intellectual cleverness. 



MENANDER. 



5°7 



In Menander, too, we find, as his statue promises, a man of the 
world — seeing and judging with decorous sadness what goes on before 
him. He is wholly without the illusions that alone inspire the trage- 
dian whose work has merit only when faith in principles survives the 
defeat of human agents. He who writes comedies of society can best 
record the smallness of men. It is when the world is most hopeful 
that the grandest tragedies are written, and when men have lost all 
confidence in themselves that they are disposed to describe and smile 
at their own pettinesses. In this way the new comedy of Athens 
reflects the decaying glories of the state, just as the full vigor of the 
Aristophanic comedy represents a period of intense zeal and enthu- 
siasm not yet crushed by defeat. 




THEATRE CHECK. 



BOOK IV.— THE HISTORIANS. 

CHAPTER I.— HERODOTUS. 

-The Origin of Prose — The Predecessors of Herodotus. II. — Herodotus, his 
Life, his Travels — His Methods, his Object — The Criticisms of his Work — His 
Stories — His Authorities. III. — Extracts. 

I. 



It is not merely convenience that causes this long delay in speaking 
of the prose writings of the Greeks. With them, as with every race, 

poetical composition long prece- 
ded that in the more difficult 
prose ; the earliest expressions 
are constantly rhythmical ones. 
The reason is not far to seek. 
Darwin, in his " Expression of 
the Emotions," says that he 
believes that " the habit of 
uttering musical sounds was 
first developed as a means 
of courtship in the early pro- 
genitors of man, and thus be- 
came associated with the strong- 
est emotions of which they are 
capable — namely, ardent love, ri- 
valry and triumph," and he in- 
fers " that the progenitors of 
man probably uttered musical 
tones before they had acquired 
articulate speech, and that con- 
sequently, when the voice is 
used under any strong emotion, 
it tends to assume, through the 
clio, a muse of HISTORY. principle of association, a musical 

character." Thus the earliest utterances, being those of a martial, ama- 




POETRY THE FIRST FORM OF COMPOSITION. 



509 



tory, or religious kind, at any rate being inspired by a strong emotion, 
would naturally find a rhythmical expression. We may notice the pecu- 
liar chanting with which any uncultivated person will make a state- 
ment when under great excitement, and the natural' tendency of 
religious enthusiasm to make use of the same forms. Consequently 
we everywhere find some form of verse preceding prose. The first 
expressions of early men are produced in excitement and assume a 
rhythmical form ; it is only later that prose, the first breath of science, 
we may call it, is produced. Moreover, the infinite difficulty of writing 
in prose is most baffling to men who are borne along on the swing of 
a rhythmical line as is the swimmer by a wave ; writers who are accus- 
tomed to the aid that is given by the ornament that verse employs as 
its right, are powerless when left face to face with the raw facts, just 
as a shy person may dance boldly in a ball-room across which he 
would dread to walk. 

While every race has gone through at least some part of the same 
experience, even now prose remains an almost unattained art in Ger- 
man and English, and the story of its growth in Greece will illus- 
trate the awkwardness of its beginning and the difficulty with which 
this is dispelled. Naturally enough, it was first employed with the 





THREE STILUSES, BOX, ROLL. 



WOODEN TABLET AND BOX OF ROLLS 
WITH HORN ENDS. 



acquisition of the art of writing ; before words could be recorded in 
some lasting way, every hymn, every chronicle, every story depended 
on its hold upon the memory for its existence, and the best chance of 
survival lay in adaptability to the memory. Here poetry had the ad- 
vantage of prose, and we may not be astray in regarding the impor- 
tance of poetry, or at least much of its traditional authority, as simply 
the result of convenience. It was originally in good part a mnemonic 
device. Just when the Greeks learned the art of writing is uncertain, 
but it is sure that it cannot be until a late date, until the time of Peis- 
istratus, that it became common, when a cheap and convenient 



510 HERODOTUS. 

material for receiving marks was found in papyrus. Before this was 
introduced from Egypt, the necessity of employing a sheep's skin ren- 
dered composition an unwieldy process, and to the absence of a con- 
venient medium and to the necessity of securing the portability of 
literature by aid of its form we may ascribe the long prevalence of 
verse. Prose, it has often been said, arose late in Greece ; the reason 
we have seen in the lack of material for writing ; one result we may 
take to be the importance of poetry in modern times. What was 
once a useful device has become by association a legitimate means 
of expression that rests on the authority of the early conditions of 
Greek civilization. All modern literature for centuries made over 
that of Rome, just as the Roman made over that of Greece, and the 
first models have triumphed in two separate civilizations. 

The first prose was naturally very simple. The fables and proverbs, 
which are to be found in every early civilization, resembled the com- 
mon talk of the people. Here compression and epigram facilitated 
the memory, and their existence alongside of poetry repeats itself in 
modern times in, for example, the metrical rules for playing whist 
and the compressed directions which are enforced upon every begin- 
ner. The abundant use of proverbial phrases among races of moderate 
civilization, as the Spanish, discloses a similar condition of things. 

The art of writing first took root apparently among the Ionians 
in Asia Minor. Miletus was the most important of the cities estab- 
lished in a remote antiquity by Ionic emigration from Hellas to the 
fertile region where touch was had with older and riper civilization, 
and where apparently the arts of peace attained early development in 
the absence of a disturbing struggle for the solution of political prob- 
lems. There in the absence of these distractions which tend to call 
away the energy of the people from intellectual matters, just as the 
money-making of this country lessens the amount of time and interest 
that can be given to unlucrative study, a high degree of maturity and 
refinement began to appear at a very early date, when the mother 
country was still in the process of emerging from rude obscurity. 
Possibly the general swift development of the Grecian colonies may 
be ascribed in good measure to their total rupture with the antiquated 
conditions out of which the original states had to grow slowly and 
painfully, just as now the English colonies have naturally acquired 
a freedom from the old hereditary forms that still embarrass the 
more slowly moving mother country. However this may be, it was 
through Miletus and the other scarcely less famous Ionic cities that 
many advances in progress made their way into Greece. The power 
of Miletus was great : it had commercial relations with the countries 
bordering on the Mediterranean and the Euxine, and it established 



THE FIRST GREEK CHRONICLERS.— IONIAN WRITERS. 511 

numerous colonies. With their earlier maturity, these Ionic offshoots 
contributed largely to the intellectual development of Hellas, and the 
influence of Miletus appears to have been especially important. This 
city at last paid dearly for its proximity to the Asiatic civilizations, 
in wars and its capture by the Persians at the beginning of the fifth 
century, an event which Phrynichus celebrated in a tragedy that so 
wrought upon the Athenians that they fined the dramatists and for- 
bade the further mention on the tragic stage of contemporary inci- 
dents. From that time Milesian influence over Greek literature 
ceased. The lost tales of Miletus belonged to a much later and less 
glorious age. It was here and in the neighboring Ionian cities that 
the early philosophers found leisure for their speculations, some 
doubtless employing prose, and others verse, which was by far the 
commonest form of conveying instruction. These men will be dis- 
cussed later ; of the historians, Hecataeus, a Milesian, was the most 
important in the influence that he had on Herodotus. He appears 
to have been a man of note, for we are told that he once served as 
an ambassador to the Persians, and was a member of an assembly of 
notables to discuss public affairs. His date is uncertain, but this last 
event took place about the year 595 B.C. At some part of his life he 
travelled extensively, and what he himself saw, as well as what he 
could learn from others, he recorded in a book called the Circuit of 
the Earth, of which but mere scraps have reached us. Even this first 
man (and nothing is firmly settled about him) had many predecessors. 
The abundant mythology attracted many writers, who recorded the 
various legends that had arisen in earlier times, for history and myth 
were connected by numberless indistinguishable threads. Later, the 
wide experience of the Ionians demanded to be chronicled. They 
were an active race ; their merchant vessels visited every port in the 
Mediterranean, and the more venturesome even made their way along 
almost the whole coast of Europe. Others visited the great mon- 
archies of the East ; the brother of the poet Alcaeus, for example, 
served in the army of the Babylonian Nebuchadnezzar; many more 
belonged to the Egyptian forces ; and when the art of writing was 
acquired, these men naturally related what they had seen and done to 
those who stayed at home. Yet only very little of their work survives. 
Cadmus of Miletus, about 576 B.C., is reputed to be one of the earliest ; 
he is said to have written a history of his native town and of the neigh- 
boring places. Bion of Proconnesus, a younger contemporary, wrote 
about the early history of Ionia. Acusilaus of Argos, whose date is 
also uncertain, was one of the first Greeks who followed in the foot- 
steps of the Ionians. He is said to have composed a collection of old 
myths in prose. Hecataeus is said to have combined these two func- 



5" 



HERODOTUS. 



tions of a historian, the narration of myths, and the record of facts, 
but naturally it was only the latter that served as an authority to Her- 
odotus. Egypt he described with considerable fullness, and indeed 
the later and more famous historian has been accused of simply copy- 
ing from his predecessor, but the charge is only brought at a late 
period and by a weak authority. Among those to whom Herodotus 
may possibly have been indebted is Dionysius of Miletus, who wrote a 
history of Persia. Certain other contemporaries traverse somewhat 
the same ground as himself, but their misty names only show that his- 
tory was well written by him when many were at work in the same 
direction, and do but confirm the obvious statement that he who suc- 
ceeds has obscure predecessors and rivals. 
In fact, nothing can exceed the obscurity 
that covers these dim names. 

Thus Herodotus formed the habit of 
travelling and describing his travels, of 
making researches in geography and his- 
tory already formed, just as he found the 
Ionic dialect in current use among these 
writers at whose head he at once placed 
himself by his delightful book. What 
contributed to the greatness of the change 
from what might almost be called the local 
histories of the earlier men to this impor- 
tant contribution to the science of history 
was the vastness of his subject, the ac- 
count, namely, of the wars between Greece 
and the East. We have seen the enor- 
mous influence that this conflict had 
upon the political constitution of Hellas 
and, more vividly, the expression of this 
change in the dramatic literature ; in the 
importance of the work of Herodotus 
we may perceive another instance of it. Yet, it is to be remem- 
bered, we find in his history the utterance not of an Athenian, but of 
an Asiatic Greek, who to be sure saw the momentous struggle between 
the west and the east, but without deriving from the spectacle the in- 
spiration that belonged only to those who had taken part in the fray. 
Herodotus was a provincial, and a spectator, not one of those who had 
gone into the arena and ventured an almost hopeless battle, in which 
they had won an unexpected success. His literary inspiration came 
from the past ; the wide difference between his work and that of 
Thucydides marks not merely the difference between two genera- 




HERODOTUS. 



THE LIFE OF HER ODOTUS. 5 1 3 

tions, one of which has reached maturity, while the other represents 
only promising adolescence ; it is far more than this that one perceives 
— it is the distinction between the Greek with all his attractive qualities 
possible, and the Greek who by proving them has made his place in 
the world's history. A sketch of the life of Herodotus will help to 
illustrate this. A sketch is in fact all that is possible, in view of the 
paucity of incidents that can be affirmed with anything like posi- 
tiveness. 

II. 

He was born apparently a few years before the Persian Wars, pro- 
bably at Halicarnassus, in Asia Minor. The date that is usually set 
is 484 B.C. His history abounds with mannerisms and inferences that 
indicate the extent of his early education. Homer, we know, was the 
foundation of a Greek's studies, and Herodotus shows thorough 
familiarity with the old poet, whose works long remained the great 
authority in literary composition, until the rhetoricians taught new 
and more artificial methods. The other poets, too, he knew well, for 
he often quotes or refers to Hesiod, Musseus, Archilochus, the later 
epic writers, Alcaeus, Sappho, Solon, Simonides of Ceos, Phrynichus, 
iEschylus and Pindar. He shows also similar familiarity with the 
prose writers, especially with Hecataeus, whom he often corrects. As 
his accomplished translator and commentator, George Rawlinson, says 
of him, " it may be questioned whether there was a single work of 
importance in the whole range of Greek literature accessible to him, 
with the contents of which he was not fairly acquainted." His travels 
were no less extensive. He apparently visited Babylon, Ardericia, 
near Susa, remote parts of Egypt, Scythia, Colchis, Thrace, Cyrene, 
Zante, Dodona, and Magna Graecia ; thus covering, to quote again 
from the same authority, " a space of thirty-one degrees of longitude 
(above 1700 miles) from east to west, and of twenty-four of latitude 
(1660 miles) from north to south." More than this: he studied care- 
fully the regions that he traveled over ; not that he knew all equally 
well ; thus, he did not go far into Thrace, Syria, and Phoenicia, but 
where he pretended to have examined carefully he undoubtedly did 
so. Thus, in Egypt his explorations were very thorough. It is sup- 
posed that he made most of his journeys before he was forty years 
old, when he was a citizen of Halicarnassus, and started from the city 
for his various tours. About 447 B.C., Halicarnassus joined the Athenian 
confederacy, and towards that time Herodotus visited Athens, which 
was then the leading city in Greece. Here he speedily became famous ; 
we are told that he read his history aloud to the Athenians, though 



514 HERODOTUS. 

how and when is not recorded. It is said, too, it will be remembered, 
that he gave a public reading at the Olympic games, when Thucydides 
was a listener and was much moved. This report, however, is doubted, 
and it appears too much like the many vivid anecdotes that adorn the 
literary history of Greece, in which anything likely to be impres- 
sive is narrated as a fact. That Thucydides might well have met 
Herodotus at Athens is extremely probable, and it is very likely that 
Sophocles made the acquaintance of the stranger from Halicarnassus, 
and various coincidences have been noted between the utterances of 
these two men ; some, doubtless, are such as may be best explained 
more simply as due merely to the fact that they were contemporaries, 
who found similar answers awaiting the same questions, but others 
seem to justify the inference of intimacy between the two men. Thus 
Herodotus (iii. 119) represents Intaphernes apologizing for asking the 
life of her brother, rather than of her husband and children, with these 
words : " God willing, I might yet find, O king, another husband and 
other children, should I lose these, but now that my father and mother 
have died I can never have another brother." A statement that 
reminds one of the king of England, who had to choose between saving 
the life of his wife and of his child, and urged that the child be saved, 
because he was sure that he could at any time get another wife. In 
the Antigone, 11. 909-912, we find : 

" And dost thou ask what law constrained me thus ? 
I answer, Had I lost a husband dear, 
I might have had another ; other sons 
By other spouse, if one were lost to me ; 
But when my father and my mother sleep 
In Hades, then no brother more can come." 

In the CEd. Col., 337, Sophocles refers to a custom of Egypt, men- 
tioned by Herodotus, according to which the men sat weaving at home 
while the women earned their bread abroad. In the CEd. Rex, 1227, 
the poet speaks of Phasis and Iotros, rivers running into the Euxine, 
which Herodotus had seen. Elsewhere we find similarities of opinion 
on questions of morals and ethics. Obviously, it is only the accumu- 
lation of coincidences that can establish anything like conviction of 
anything more than a natural agreement in the thought of their time. 
In view of the evidence, we are, perhaps, justified in supposing an 
intimate personal relation between the two men, especially in view of 
the fact that nothing would be more likely, and that Sophocles wrote 
a poem in honor of Herodotus, of which Plutarch has preserved the 
opening words ; it is of course possible that the elegy referred to some 
other person of the same name. Later, in the year 443 B.C., Herodotus 
made his way to Thurium, as one of the colonists whom Pericles sent 



SIMPLICITY OF HERODOTUS' STYLE. 515 

thither. Here, apparently, he devoted himself to the completion and 
improvement of his work. This process seems to have gone on until 
the author's death. When this last event occurred is uncertain ; the 
dates suggested vary between 430 and 394. The place is equally a 
matter of conjecture and consequent dispute. 

One of the first things that the student notices in reading Herodotus 
is the simplicity of his style. It is like talk, not like literary com- 
position, reminding one more of the simple, unaffected prose of Join- 
ville and Sir John Mandeville than of anything else. While poetry 
had grown up through a period of artificiality, in which its first function 
as a bit of religious ceremony had survived, so that directness would 
have seemed like irreverence, prose began, where it is destined to end, 
with a likeness to simple oral narration. The end of the middle ages 
can alone show us a similar result ; for all our modern prose, from the 
days of Boccaccio to those of the most complicated German book, is 
tainted with an effort to copy the artificial construction of a Latin 
sentence. While English prose has in a good measure lost the most 
marked traces of this literary origin, enough remains to make its 
genealogy clear. Later, as we shall notice, Attic prose was poisoned 
by the conventionalities of the rhetoricians, who made the usual error 
of confounding obscurity with wisdom. Yet, even in them we find 
perhaps scarcely anything but a more conventional treatment of the 
method already employed in Herodotus, which arose from his imitation 
of the Homeric poems. The habit of letting history tell itself dram- 
atically, as it were, through speeches placed in the mouths of the 
actors concerned, is the most vivid example of this tendency. In 
Herodotus this device retains all its primeval simplicity ; later it 
became as artificial as is the use of the hexameter in modern poetry. 
It makes itself manifest more especially in the episodes with which 
the history is continuously lightened. Continually, too, the movement 
of the sentences and the words employed remind one of the epic 
poems. In the matter of style Herodotus is far superior to his pre- 
decessors and contemporaries, who wrote with a simplicity that is 
extraordinarily graceless. 

Of course Herodotus has not held his high position without receiving 
abundant criticism ; he has been continually blamed for not being 
some one else, and for the unsatisfactoriness with which he meets the 
questions suggested by modern science. His belief in divine inter- 
ference, however, which is sometimes objected to, proves nothing more 
than that he lived in a time when scepticism had not destroyed faith 
in the oracles. Even in books written at the present day we con- 
tinually find the statement that such or such events, generally those 
in the remote past, were divinely arranged for the furtherance of certain 



5 l6 HERODOTUS. 

objects, and Herodotus is less disposed to explain recent events by 
such a hypothesis. Elsewhere, too, he prefers to account for things 
that have happened by a rationalistic explanation, as in the seventh 
book, § 191, he ascribes the cessation of a storm, not to the sacrifices 
of the Magi, but to the fact that the tempest had spent itself. Still 
it is easy to deny the efficacy of strange deities, and it is undeniably 
true that Herodotus shared the beliefs of his time and country which 
are called superstitions when they are outgrown. His notion of a 
blind but remorseless Nemesis, that looked upon human success as 
simply a growth that demanded reproof and punishment, is one that 
yet survives in the familiar phrase, "tempting Providence," and was 
continually referred to by early and late Greek and Roman poets and 
prose-writers.. The strangeness of the defeat of the Persians not 
unnaturally inspired the Greeks with the thought that they had been 
aided by the gods, and if Herodotus carried this view further than his 
maturer Athenian companions, we must remember that he was dis- 
tinctly a provincial. It is urged that to make facts go on all fours 
with this explanation he is apt to ascribe great events to minute and 
trifling causes, to the conduct of individual men ; this is doubtless 
true. He does explain vaster movements as the result of some per- 
sonal feeling, but how about our contemporaries in this respect ? Are 
not those who affirm any other cause for human progress charged with 
injustice to individuality? What is the lesson of Carlyle's view of 
history? Mr. Froude, it will be remembered, ascribes the growth of 
ritualism in the Church of England to a whim of Cardinal Newman's, 
forgetting the general mediaeval revival of the time in architecture, 
painting, and literature; and Sainte-Beuve lays exaggerated weight on 
the fact that the mother of Andre Chenier was a Greek woman when 
he explains the way in which that poet partook of the revival of Greek 
studies at the end of the last century. 

That Herodotus should have taught historical lessons by means of 
personal anecdotes is natural enough in view of the popularity of 
fables as a means of conveying moral instruction. The authority of 
the epic poems also encouraged that way of regarding history, and the 
isolation of the Greek cities helped to establish it. It was only through 
the united effort that was enforced by the Persian attack that the 
Greeks learned how much power lay in great principles, and that a 
wider view of history became possible. Herodotus made a step in 
advance of his predecessors when he conceived the story of the great 
war as a possible subject beyond the mere aggregation of more or less 
accurate statistics. These statistics have been most severely criticised, 
and it has been maintained in antiquity as well as in modern times that 
Herodotus, while a credible witness concerning things that had come 



THE CREDIBILITY OF HERODOTUS— HIS METHOD. 517 

under his own eyes, was a mere retailer of idle gossip concerning the 
eastern nations, and that he enormously exaggerated the extent of his 
travels. The discoveries of the last few years in Egyptian and Asiatic 
history, it is alleged, prove his incompetence, if not his dishonesty. It 
is well to remember, however, that scientific exactness is a thing of 
very slow growth, and that one of the lessons it enforces is tolerance 
of even crude gropings towards historical precision. History, as 
Herodotus uses the word, means research, and he says himself (vii. 152) 
that he is bound to relate what is said, though he is not bound to 
believe everything, and that this remark may apply to the whole history. 
With this in mind, one will be prepared to find a great deal recorded 
that fell from idle and irresponsible lips. It is all narrated, however, 
in a charming style. This simplicity, humor, and pathos lend an irre- 
sistible charm to his history or romance, as the reader may decide to 
call it. 

As has been said, his aim was to write an account of the great war 
between the Greeks and the barbarians. To do this he went to work 
to describe the foreign nations that took part in it. The history of 
Lydia is of importance with regard to the beginning of the struggle 
and from its connection with the rise of the Persian power. Babylonia 
or Assyria, Egypt and Scythia were all, in their way, divisions of the 
general subject ; and, inasmuch as he had seen these regions, he intro- 
duced much matter that threw light on the general condition of the 
countries under discussion. The part that describes the war has been 
less criticised. Like all the rest, it is narrated with extreme simplicity. 
The rest of the section from which a quotation was just made (vii. 152) 
will illustrate this : 

" Now whether Xerxes sent a herald to Argos with such a message, and 
whether ambassadors of the Argives, having gone up to Susa, asked 
Artaxerxes about the alliance, I cannot affirm with certainty ; nor do I 
declare any other opinion on the subject than what the Argives themselves 
say ; but this much I know, that if all men were to bring together their own 
faults into one place, for the purpose of making an exchange with their 
neighbors, when they had looked closely into their neighbors' faults, they 
would all gladly take back what they brought with them. Thus the conduct 
of the Argives was not the most base .". . . ; for even this is reported, 
that the Argives were the people who invited the Persian to invade Greece, 
because their war with the Lacedaemonians was going on badly, wishing 
that anything might happen to them rather than continue in their present 
troubles. This is enough about the Argives." 

This conversational turn is extremely common ; he continually ends 
his statements with some such phrase, " so they say," "such is the 



5*8 HERODOTUS. 

account they give," etc., assertions that give the history an air of 
amusing gossip. Yet, this can not remain a final judgment. He 
admired the Athenians, but he is able to mention their faults ; he 
detested the Persians, but he does justice to their bravery and honesty. 
Certainly this fair-mindedness is not too common at any period. He 
makes it very plain in what respects Greece is inferior to other lands, 
and shows remarkable generosity to the barbarians. This quality 
certainly outweighs extravagant credulity about omens, dreams, and 
prodigies. His notion of Nemesis, too, is perhaps in itself as defen- 
sible as the modern habit of writing Greek history with the occult 
purpose of assaulting or defending democracy. Even when modern 
science shall have destroyed his claims as an authority regarding 
Oriental matters, enough will remain that was inspired by an effort to 
tell his story, to illustrate a remote epoch. We must always, too, avoid 
the temptation of confounding the general credulity of a period and 
the absence of scientific method with personal dishonesty. When 
Herodotus (vii. 129), speaking of Thessaly, says that in old times there 
was a lake, but that the mountains were cast down by an earthquake 
and the waters thus set free, he adds that the Thessalians affirm that 
Poseidon made the pass through which the Peneus flows. 

" This story is probable," he goes on, " for whoever thinks that Poseidon 
shakes the earth, and that rents produced by earthquakes are the work of 
this god, on seeing this would say that Poseidon formed it, for it seems clear 
to me that the separation of the mountains was the effect of an earthquake." 

Here we are between the antiquity that explained every event as 
the direct result of divine action, and the modern spirit that explains 
things by natural causes, and statements like these, perhaps, illustrate 
more clearly current notions than personal characteristics. 

Indeed, we may say that the fate of Herodotus well illustrates the 
difficulty of putting ourselves, with our very different notions of the 
functions of history, in the place of that chronicler, who apparently 
endeavored to compose a prose epic. At least, if this plan was not 
definitely formed by him, it seems very possible that he was influ- 
enced by that poetical ideal in drawing the picture that he made of 
the next great conflict between Greek and barbarian. Not only do 
we observe throughout the whole study of literature a constant rela- 
tion between every form of expression and the current thought of the 
time, so that, to take the last fifty or sixty years alone, we may easily 
detect the picturesqueness of the Romantic revival in Thiers, the con- 
temporary adoration of magnificent heroes in Carlyle's Cromwell and 
Frederick, and the new scientific impulse in Ranke and his followers, 
and something similar may explain the tendency, which is strong in 



520 HERODOTUS. 

Herodotus, to let anecdotes portray national feelings, with scarcely 
more care for their exactitude than Homer felt. It was enough for 
him to listen to the chatter of dragomen who doubtless recounted the 
ready gossip of men who were still almost in the condition of myth- 
makers, and what he heard he set down as in duty bound. Weighing 
evidence was as far from his thoughts as the application of chemical 
tests to their gold and silver coins. He transmitted to us the various 
accounts that reached him, with all their inaccuracies and inconsis- 
tencies, with an eye to the general impression that they should make 
rather than to satisfying the demands of modern scholars. It is not 
easy for us, trained as we are to admire Homer, to sympathize fully 
with its authority among the Greeks as a historical text-book. The 
poetical excellence and its prominence as the sole piece of testimony 
floated an enormous amount of miscellaneous statement the real value 
of which could not be conjectured, much less determined; and natu- 
rally enough its methods, which are those of all early races, conveyed 
enormous authority. 

Doubtless both Homer and Herodotus would have conferred an 
inestimable benefit upon us moderns, if they could have foreseen the 
sort of questions which we should ask, but they would not have been 
Homer or Herodotus if they had done so. We must be contented 
with what we have left, bearing in mind that this early historian was 
animated by some such feeling as that which we see in Shakspere's 
chronicle-plays, and that authenticity is a remote and late-growing 
thing. Certainly, the delight that Herodotus has given to generations 
of readers might, well serve to outweigh the indignation of his critics 
over the fact that he lived when he did and was most distinctly a man 
of his time and of his country. Anger over his shortcomings as little 
suits us as modern science would have been natural for him. 

It is possible to agree that the stories with which Herodotus fills a 
good part of his history are a mere accumulation of folk-lore which he 
picked up from irresponsible sources, and yet to be averse to calling 
him dishonest. The anecdote about Arion's preservation by a dolphin 
can not properly find a credible place in a natural or a literary history. 
The reports about Croesus, Solon's visit, etc., bear unmistakable 
marks of being anecdotes rather than facts ; yet their collection shows 
what a vast number of his contemporaries mistook for a satisfactory 
explanation of events the way in which history was told orally before 
it was ever written down, just as the absurd stories about animals that 
found many unsuspicious chroniclers and readers for many thousand 
years indicate from what it was that the study of animals grew. Pliny 
the elder reports many statements about beasts and snakes that have 
actually no foundation, but it was by collecting and correcting these 



SOURCES OF HERODOTUS' NARRATION— CRITICISMS OF CTESIAS. 521 

statements that zoology became a science. In the same way by 
amassing idle reports Herodotus laid the foundations of historical 
science. He did in prose for the past what the poets had long been 
doing with mythology and the legends of heroic times ; exactly as 
the fate of Troy had depended on the mood of Achilles, this later 
war seemed satisfactorily explained by the rigmarole that Herodotus 
found told everywhere about him, and which he told again in his turn. 
The swift development of the Athenian intellect that followed the Per- 
sian wars left him hopelessly remote and old-fashioned, like the wooden 
war-ships of the present day. With the new light there appeared a 
great contempt for the historian, but after a brief eclipse his fame 
shone forth again, and he received the admiration that he deserved, 
until recent scholars once more assaulted him as an impostor. 

This fault-finding began about 400 B.C. with a book written by 
Ctesias, a physician at the Persian court, who remained for seventeen 
years in that country. He appears to have expressed great contempt 
for the assertions of Herodotus, who had made but a brief stay in Per- 
sia, whereas he himself was familiar with the language, had access to 
the royal archives, and hence was able to correct his rival's errors. It 
has been maintained by some that Ctesias merely substituted mis- 
statements of his own for those of Herodotus, but although direct tes- 
timony is unfortunately lacking, it seems more likely that his fuller 
opportunities could not have failed to have lent his book much greater 
authority. The loss of his book is consequently much to be lamented ; 
the rare scraps that have reached us in no way enable us to determine 
his accuracy with anything like certainty. Ctesias furthermore wrote 
about the other Oriental monarchies, and in a separate book he 
described India, thus giving to the Greeks their earliest information 
about that country. 

It should be said, however, that the information that Ctesias gave 
would not now pass muster with any one. Whatever his accuracy 
about Persian affairs, his report concerning East India would shatter 
the most venerable reputation, although his experience was that which 
has often repeated itself with the first travelers in new countries : thus* 
he saw the men with dogs' heads that Mandeville describes, who dwell 
in the mountains (possibly they are Buddhist adepts), the pigmies, 
who may have belonged to some early race, as well as the one-legged 
people ; and the Sciopodce, who used their large feet as sunshades, 

" and men whose heads 
Do grow beneath their shoulders," 

all of whom have acquired literary rather than scientific standing, 
probably by exercise of the habit, not unknown even to students of 



522 HERODOTUS. 

science, of indiscriminate copying from one's predecessors, so that in 
reading Mandeville we have the ghosts of the lies of Ctesias, almost 
sanctified by the authority of Pliny, who quoted them and thereby 
made them a part of mediaeval folk-lore — and from folk-lore, probably, 
they took their remote start. Yet while Ctesias fathered a mass of 
inexactness about the distant and almost fabulous Indians, what he 
had to say about things Persian carried more weight; and the report 
of Herodotus, in spite of the charm of his style, a most powerful sup- 
port, was often doubted by the ancients. 

Although his attack on Herodotus damaged that historian's reputa- 
tion, his own accounts were doubted by Aristotle and Plutarch. An- 
other writer, the Pseudo-Plutarch, accused Herodotus of malignity 
and gross inaccuracy, but he merely injured his own fame and convicted 
himself of those faults. What probably was a sufficient cause for the 
subsequent neglect of Herodotus was the swift growth of the new 
spirit that found no charm in his simple narrative and greatly de- 
spised his ready credulity. No one is so sure to be disliked as the 
man whose faults are those that any given generation or period has 
just outgrown. Real antiquity can be appreciated at its proper worth 
and be admired without rancor, but belated antiquity has no mercy 
shown it. A generation that has thrown off the authority of its im- 
mediate predecessors cannot judge these with anything like fairness. 
We see examples of this in the feeling about Pope when modern 
poetry began to be written, and in the feeling of Pope's contempo- 
raries for the writers of conceits. The days of the Ionic prose were 
gone when the rhetorical prose of Athens began to flourish. 

Among the other historians of whom but little or nothing has sur- 
vived, was Hellanicus of Mitylene, whose work is frequently men- 
tioned by Greek writers. He appears to have written histories of the 
separate Greek states and of the establishment of the colonies. Frag- 
ments are left of the memoirs of Stesimbrotus and of sketches of 
travel and of persons by Ion of Chios, who is better known for his 
tragedies. In general, however, these literary ruins are mere dust. 

HERODOTUS. Book VII.— Chapters 100-105. 

Ch. 100. — Now when the numbering and marshalling of the host was 
ended, Xerxes conceived a wish to go himself throughout the forces, and 
with his own eyes behold everything. Accordingly he traversed the ranks 
seated in his chariot, and, going from nation to nation, made manifold in- 
quiries, while his scribes wrote down the answers ; till at last he had 
passed from end to end of the whole land, among both the horsemen and 
likewise the foot. This done, he exchanged his chariot for a Sidonian 
galley, and, seated beneath a golden awning, sailed along the prows of all 
his vessels (the vessels having now been hauled down and launched into the 



XERXES PREPARES TO ATTACK THE GREEKS. 523 

sea), while he made inquiries again, as he had done when he reviewed the 
land-forces, and caused the answers to be recorded by his scribes. The 
captains took their ships to the distance of about four hundred feet from 
the shore, and there lay to, with their vessels in a single row, the prows 




ASIATIC WARRIOR IN CHARIOT. 



facing the land, and with the fighting-men upon the decks accoutred as if 
for war, while the king sailed along in the open space between the ships 
and the shore, and so reviewed the fleet. 



BOAT WITH AWNING. 



Ch. ioi. — Now after Xerxes had sailed down the whole line and was gone 
ashore, he sent for Demaratus the son of Ariston, who had accompanied him 
in his march upon Greece, and bespake him thus : 

" Demaratus, it is my pleasure at this time to ask thee certain things which 



524 HERODOTUS. ■ 

I wish to know. Thou art a Greek, and, as I hear from the other Greeks 
with whom I converse, no less than from thine own lips, thou art a native of 
a city which is not the meanest or the weakest in their land. Tell me, there- 
fore, what thinkest thou ? Will the Greeks lift a hand against us ? Mine 
own judgment is that, even if all the Greeks and all the barbarians of the 
West were gathered together in one place, they would not be able to abide 
my onset, not being really of one mind. But I would fain know what thou 
thinkest hereon." 

Thus Xerxes questioned ; and the other replied in his turn, — " O king, is 
it thy will that I give thee a true answer, or dost thou wish for a pleasant 
one ? " 

Then the king bade him speak the plain truth, and promised that he 
would not on that account hold him in less favour than heretofore. 

Ch. 102. — So Demaratus, when he heard the promise, spake as follows: — 
" O king ! since thou biddest me at all risks speak the truth, and not say 
what will one day prove me to have lied to thee, thus I answer. Want has 
at all times been a fellow-dweller with us in our land, while Valor is an ally 
whom we have gained by dint of wisdom and strict laws. Her aid enables us 
to drive out want and escape thraldom. Brave are all the Greeks who dwell 
in any Dorian land, but what I am about to say does not concern all, but 
only the Lacedaemonians. First then, come what may, they will never 
accept thy terms, which would reduce Greece to slavery ; and further, they 
are sure to join battle with thee, though all the rest of the Greeks should 
submit to thy will. As for their numbers, do not ask how many they are, 
that their resistance should be a possible thing ; for if a thousand of them 
should take the field, they will meet thee in battle, and so will any number, 
be it less than this, or be it more." 

Ch. 103. — When Xerxes heard this answer of Demaratus, he laughed and 
answered, — 

" What wild words, Demaratus ! A thousand men join battle with such 
an army as this ! Come then, wilt thou — who wert once, as thou sayest, 
their king — engage to fight this very day with ten men ? I trow not. And 
yet, if all thy fellow-citizens be indeed such as thou sayest they are, thou 
oughtest, as their king, by thine own country's usages, to be ready to fight 
with twice the number. If then each one of them be a match for ten of my 
soldiers, I may well call upon thee to be a match for twenty. So wouldest 
thou assure the truth of what thou hast now said. If, however, you Greeks, 
who vaunt yourselves so much, are of a truth men like those whom I have seen 
about my court, as thyself, Demaratus, and the others with whom I am wont 
to converse, — if, I say, you are really men of this sort and size, how is the 
speech that thou hast uttered more than a mere empty boast ? For, to go to 
the very verge of likelihood, — how could a thousand men, or ten thousand, or 
even fifty thousand, particularly if they were all alike free, and not under 
one lord, — how could such a force, I say, stand against an army like mine? 
Let them be five thousand, and we shall have more than a thousand men to 
each one of theirs. If, indeed, like our troops, they had a single master ; 
their fear of him might make them courageous beyond their natural bent, 
or they might be urged by lashes against an enemy which far outnumbered 
them. But left to their own free choice, assuredly they will act differently. 
For mine own part, I believe that if the Greeks had to contend with the 



THE BATTLE OF THERMOPYLAE. 525 

Persians only, and the numbers were equal on both sides, the Greeks would 
find it hard to stand their ground. We too have among us such men as those 
of whom thou spakest — not many indeed, but still we possess a few. For 
instance, some of my body-guard would be willing to engage singly with 
three Greeks. But this thou didst not know ; and therefore it was thou 
talkedst so foolishly." 

Ch. 104. — Demaratus answered him, — 

" I knew, O king ! at the outset, that if I told thee the truth, my speech 
would displease thine ears. But as thou didst require me to answer thee 
with all possible truthfulness, I informed thee what the Spartans will do. 
And in this I speak not from any love that I bear them — for none knows 
better than thou what my love towards them is likely to be at the present 
time, when they have robbed me of my rank and my ancestral honours, and 
made me a homeless exile, whom thy father did receive, bestowing on me 
both shelter and sustenance. What likelihood is there that a man of under- 
standing should be unthankful for kindness shown him, and not cherish it 
in his heart ? For mine own self, I pretend not to cope with ten men, or 
with two, — nay, had I the choice, I would rather not fight even with one. 
But, if need appeared, or if there were any great cause urging me on, I 
would contend with right good will against one of those persons who boast 
themselves a match for any three Greeks. So likewise the Lacedaemonians, 
when they fight singly, are as good men as any in the world, and when they 
fight in a body, are the bravest of all. For though they be free men, they 
are not in all respects free ; Law is the master whom they own ; and this 
master they fear more than thy subjects fear thee. Whatever he commands, 
they do ; and his commandment is always the same : it forbids them to flee 
in battle, whatever the number of their foes, and requires them to stand 
firm, and either to conquer or die. If in these words, O king ! I seem to 
thee to speak foolishly, I am content from this time forward evermore to 
hold my peace. I had not now spoken unless compelled by thee. Certes, 
I pray that all may turn out according to thy wishes." 

Ch. 105. — Such was the answer of Demaratus, and Xerxes was not angry 
with him at all, but only laughed, and sent him away with words of kindness. 



HERODOTUS. The Battle of Thermopylae.— Book VII. 

Chapter 207. — The Greek forces at Thermopylae, when the Persian army 
drew near to the entrance of the pass, were seized with fear, and a council 
was held to consider about a retreat. It was the wish of the Peloponnesians 
generally that the army should fall back upon the Peloponnese, and there 
guard the Isthmus. But Leonidas, who saw with what indignation the 
Phocians and Locrians heard of this plan, gave his voice for remaining 
where they were, while they sent envoys to the several cities to ask for help, 
since they were too few to make a stand against an army like that of the 
Medes. 

Ch. 208. — While this debate was going on, Xerxes sent a mounted spy to ob- 
serve the Greeks, and note how many they were and see what they were doing. 
He had heard, before he came out of Thessaly, that a few men were assembled 
at this place, and that at their head were certain Lacedaemonians, under 



THE GREEKS REPEL THE MEDES. 527 

Leonidas, a descendant of Hercules. The horseman rode up to the camp, 
and looked about him, but did not see the whole army; for such as were on 
the further side of the wall (which had been rebuilt and was now carefully 
guarded) it was not possible for him to behold; but he observed those on 
the outside, who were encamped in front of the rampart. It chanced that at 
this time the Lacedaemonians held the outer guard, and were seen by the 
spy, some of them engaged in gymnastic exercises, others combing their 
long hair. At this the spy greatly marvelled, but he counted their number, 
and when he had taken accurate note of everything, he rode back quietly ; 
for no one pursued after him, or paid any heed to his visit. So he returned, 
and told Xerxes all that he had seen. 

Ch. 209. — Upon this, Xerxes, who had no means of surmising the truth — 
namely, that the Spartans were preparing to do or die manfully — but thought 
it laughable that they should be engaged in such employments, sent and 
called to his presence Demaratus the son of Ariston, who still remained 
with the army. When he appeared, Xerxes told him all that he had heard, 
and questioned him concerning the news, since he was anxious to understand 
the meaning of such behaviour on the part of the Spartans. Then Demaratus 
said — 

" I spake to thee, O king, concerning these men long since, when we had 
but just begun our march upon Greece ; thou, however, didst only laugh at 
my words, when I told thee of all this, which I saw would come to pass. 
Earnestly do I struggle at all times to speak truth to thee, sire; and now 
listen to it once more. These men have come to dispute the pass with us, 
and it is for this that they are now making ready. 'Tis their custom, when 
they are about to hazard their lives, to adorn their heads with care. Be 
assured, however, that if thou canst subdue the men who are here and 
the Lacedaemonians who remain in Sparta, there is no other nation in all the 
world which will venture to lift a hand in their defense. Thou hast now to 
deal with the first kingdom and town in Greece, and with the bravest men." 

Then Xerxes, to whom what Demaratus said seemed altogether to pass 
belief, asked further, " how it was possible for so small an army to contend 
with his? " 

" O king ! " Demaratus answered, " let me be treated as a liar, if matters 
fall not out as I say." 

Ch. 210. — But Xerxes was not persuaded any the more. Four whole days 
he suffered to go by, expecting that the Greeks would run away. When, 
however, he found on the fifth that they were not gone, thinking that their 
firm stand was mere impudence and recklessness, he grew wroth, and sent 
against them the Medes and Cissians, with orders to take them alive and 
bring them into his presence. Then the Medes rushed forward and charged 
the Greeks, but fell in vast numbers. Others however took the places of 
the slain, and would not be beaten off, though they suffered terrible losses. 
In this way it became clear to all, and especially to the king, that though he 
had plenty of combatants, he had but very few warriors. The struggle, 
however, continued during the whole day. 

Ch. 211. — Then the Medes, having met so rough a reception, withdrew 
from the fight ; and their place was taken by the band of Persians under 
Hydarnes, whom the king called his "immortals": they, it was thought, 



5^8 



HERODOTUS. 




would soon finish the business. But when they joined battle with the 
Greeks, 'twas with no better success than the Median detachment — things 

went much as before — the two armies fighting 
in a narrow space, and the barbarians using 
shorter spears than the Greeks, and having no 
advantage from their numbers. The Lacedaemo- 
nians fought in a way worthy of note, and showed 
themselves far more skilful in fight than their 
adversaries, often turning their backs, and making 
as though they were all flying away, on which the 
barbarians would rush after them with much noise 
and shouting, when the Spartans at their approach 
would wheel round and face their pursuers, in 
this way destroying vast numbers of the enemy. 
Some Spartans likewise fell in these encounters, 
but only a very few. At last the Persians, finding 
that all their efforts to gain the pass availed 
nothing, and that whether they attacked by divis- 
ions or in any other way, it was to no purpose, 
withdrew to their own quarters. 

Ch. 212. — During these assaults, it is said that 
Xerxes, who was watching the battle, thrice leaped 
from the throne on which he sate, in terror for 
his army. 

Next day the combat was renewed, but with no 
better success on the part of the barbarians. The 
Greeks were so few that the barbarians hoped to 
find them disabled, by reason of their wounds, from offering any further 
resistance ; and so they once more attacked them. But the Greeks were 
drawn up in detachments according 
to their cities, and bore the brunt of 
the battle in turns, — all except the 
Phocians, who had been stationed on 
the mountain to guard the pathway. 
So when the Persians found no differ- 
ence between that day and the prece- 
ding, they again retired to their 
quarters. 

Ch. 213. — Now, as the king was in 
a great strait, and knew not how he 
should deal with the emergency, Ephi- 
altes, the son of Eurydemus, a man 
of Malis, came to him and was ad- 
mitted to a conference. Stirred by 
the hope of receiving a rich reward 
at the king's hands, he had come to 
tell him of the pathway which led 
across the mountain to Thermopylae ; 
by which disclosure he brought de- 
struction on the band of Greeks who had there withstood the barbarians. 



A PERSIAN WARRIOR. 




PERSIAN SOLDIERS. 



THE PERSIANS SURPRISE THE PHOCIANS. 5 2 9 

This Ephialtes afterward, from fear of the Lacedaemonians, fled into 
Thessaly; and during his exile, in an assembly of the Amphictyons held at 
Pylae, a price was set upon his head by the Pylagorae. When some 
time had gone by, he returned from exile, and went to Anticyra, where he 
was slain by Athenades, a native of Trachis. Athenades did not slay him for 
his treachery, but for another reason, which I shall mention in a later part 
of my history : yet still the Lacedaemonians honored him none the less. 
Thus then did Ephialtes perish a long time afterwards. 

Ch. 214. — Besides this there is another story told, which I do not at all 
believe — to wit, that Onetas the son of Phanagoras, a native of Carystus, 
and Corydallus, a man of Anticyra, were the persons who spoke on this 
matter to the king, and took the Persians across the mountain. One may 
guess which story is true, from the fact that the deputies of the Greeks, the 
Pylagorae, who must have had the best means of ascertaining the truth, did 
not offer the reward for the heads of Onetas and Corydallus, but for that of 
Ephialtes of Trachis; and again from the flight of Ephialtes, which we know 
to have been on this account. Onetas, I allow, although he was not a 
Malian, might have been acquainted with the path, if he had lived much 
in that part of the country ; but as Ephialtes was the person who actually 
led the Persians round the mountain by the pathway, I leave his name on 
record as that of the man who did the deed. 

Ch. 215. — Great was the joy of Xerxes on this occasion ; and as he ap- 
proved highly of the enterprise which Ephialtes undertook to accomplish, 
he forthwith sent upon the errand Hydarnes, and the Persians under him. 
The troops left the camp about the time of the lighting of the lamps. The 
pathway along which they went was first discovered by the Malians of these 
parts, who soon afterward led the Thessalians by it to attack the Phocians, 
at the time when the Phocians fortified the pass with a wall, and so put them- 
selves under covert from danger. And ever since, the path has always been 
put to an ill use by the Malians. 



Ch. 217. — The Persians took this path, and, crossing the Asopus, con- 
tinued their march through the whole of the night, having the mountains of 
(Eta on their right hand, and on their left those of Trachis. At dawn of 
day they found themselves close to the summit. Now the hill was guarded, 
as I have already said, by a thousand Phocian men-at-arms, who were placed 
there to defend the pathway, and at the same time to secure their own 
country. They had been given the guard of the mountain path, while the 
other Greeks defended the pass below, because they had volunteered for 
the service, and had pledged themselves to Leonidas to maintain the post. 

Ch. ?i8. — The ascent of the Persians became known to the Phocians in 
the following manner : — 

During all the time that they were making their way up, the Greeks re- 
mained unconscious of it, inasmuch as the whole mountain was covered with 
groves of oak ; but it happened that the air was very still, and the leaves 
which the Persians stirred with their feet made, as it was likely they would, 
a loud rustling, whereupon the Phocians jumped up and flew to seize their 
arms. In a moment the barbarians came in sight, and perceiving men arm- 



53° HERODOTUS. 

ing themselves, were greatly amazed; for they had fallen in with an enemy 
when they expected no opposition. Hydarnes, alarmed at the sight, and 
fearing lest the Phocians might be Lacedaemonians, inquired of Ephialtes 
to what nation these troops belonged. Ephialtes told him the exact truth, 
whereupon he arrayed his Persians for battle. The Phocians, galled by 
the showers of arrows to which they were exposed, and imagining them- 
selves the special object of the Persian attack, fled hastily to the crest of the 
mountain, and there made ready to meet death ; but while their mistake 
continued, the Persians, with Ephialtes and Hydarnes, not thinking it worth 
their while to delay on account of Phocians, passed on and descended the 
mountain with all possible speed. 

Ch. 219. — The Greeks at Thermopylae received the first warning of the 
destruction which the dawn would bring on them from the seer Megistias, 
who read their fate in the victims as he was sacrificing. After this deserters 
came in, and brought the news that the Persians were marching round by 
the hills : it was still night when these men arrived. Last of all, the scouts 
came running down from the heights, and brought in the same accounts, 
when the day was just beginning to break. Then the Greeks held a council 
to consider what they should do, and here opinions were divided : some 
were strong against quitting their post, while others contended to the con- 
trary. So when the council had broken up, part of the troops departed and 
went their ways homeward to their separate states ; part, however, resolved 
to remain, and to stand by Leonidas to the last. 

Ch. 220. — It is said that Leonidas himself sent away the troops who de- 
parted, because he tendered their safety, but thought it unseemly that either 
he or his Spartans should quit the post which they had been especially sent 
to guard. For my own part, I am inclined to think that Leonidas gave 
the order, because he perceived the allies to be out of heart and unwilling 
to encounter the danger to which his own mind was made up. He there- 
fore commanded them to retreat, but said that he himself could not draw 
back with honor ; knowing that, if he stayed, glory awaited him, and that 
Sparta in that case would not lose her prosperity. For when the Spar- 
tans, at the very beginning of the war, sent to consult the oracle con- 
cerning it, the answer which they received from the Pythoness was, " that 
either Sparta must be overthrown by the barbarians, or one of her kings 
must perish." The prophecy was delivered in hexameter verse, and ran 
thus : — 

" Oh ! ye men who dwell in the streets of broad Lacedasmon ! 
Either your glorious town shall be sacked by the children of Perseus, 
Or, in exchange, must all through the whole Laconian country 
Mourn for the loss of a king, descendant of great Heracles. 
He cannot be withstood by the courage of bulls or of lions, 
Strive as they may; he is mighty as Jove ; there is naught that shall stay him, 
Till he have got for his prey your king, or your glorious city." 

The remembrance of this answer, I think, and the wish to secure the whole 
glory for the Spartans, caused Leonidas to send the allies away. This 
is more likely than that they quarreled with him, and took their departure 
in such unruly fashion. 



DEFEAT OF THE GREEKS AT THERMOPYLAE. 53 1 

Ch. 221. — To me it seems no small argument in favour of this view, that 
the seer also who accompanied the army, Megistias, the Acarnanian, — said 
to have been of the blood of Melampus, and the same who was led by the 
appearance of the victims to warn the Greeks of the danger which threatened 
them, — received orders to retire (as it is certain he did) from Leonidas, that 
he might escape the coming destruction. Megistias, however, though bidden 
to depart, refused, and stayed with the army; but he had an only son present 
with the expedition, whom he now sent away. 

Ch. 222. — So the allies, when Leonidas ordered them to retire, obeyed 
him and forthwith departed. Only the Thespians and the Thebans remained 
with the Spartans ; and of these the Thebans were kept back by Leonidas 
as hostages, very much against their will. The Thespians, on the contrary, 
stayed entirely of their own accord, refusing to retreat, and declaring that 
they would not forsake Leonidas and his followers. So they abode with the 
Spartans, and died with them. Their leader was Demophilus, the son of 
Diadromes. 

Ch. 223. — At sunrise Xerxes made libations, after which he waited until 
the time when the forum is wont to fill, and then began his advance. 
Ephialtes had instructed him thus, as the descent of the mountain is much 
quicker, and the distance much shorter, than the way round the hills, and the 
ascent. So the barbarians under Xerxes began to draw nigh ; and the 
Greeks under Leonidas, as they now went forth determined to die, advanced 
much further than on previous days, until they reached the more open portion 
of the pass. Hitherto they had held their station within the wall, and from 
this had gone forth to fight at the point where the pass was the narrowest. 
Now they joined battle beyond the defile, and carried slaughter among the 
barbarians, who fell in heaps. Behind them the captains of the squadrons, 
armed with whips, urged their men forward with continual blows. Many 
were thrust into the sea, and there perished ; a still greater number were 
trampled to death by their own soldiers ; no one heeded the dying. For 
the Greeks, reckless of their own safety and desperate, since they knew that, 
as the mountain had been crossed, their destruction was nigh at hand, exerted 
themselves with the most furious valour against the barbarians. 

Ch. 224. — By this time the spears of the greater number were all shivered, 
and with their swords they hewed down the ranks of the Persians ; and here, 
as they strove, Leonidas fell fighting bravely, together with many other 
famous Spartans, whose names I have taken care to learn on account of their 
great worthiness, as indeed I have those of all the three hundred. There 
fell too at the same time very many famous Persians : among them two 
sons of Darius, Abrocomes and Hyperanthes, his children by Phratagune, 
the daughter of Artanes. Artanes was brother of King Darius, being a son 
of Hystaspes, the son of Arsames ; and when he gave his daughter to the 
king he made him heir likewise of all his substance ; for she was his 
only child. 

Ch. 225. — Thus two brothers of Xerxes here fought and fell. And now 
there arose a fierce struggle between the Persians and the Lacedaemonians 
over the body of Leonidas, in which the Greeks four times drove back the 
enemy, and at last by their great bravery succeeded in bearing off the body. 



53 2 HERODOTUS. 

This combat was scarcely ended when the Persians with Ephialtes 
approached ; and the Greeks, informed that they drew nigh, made a change 
in the manner of their fighting. Drawing back into the narrowest part of 
the pass, and retreating even behind the cross wall, they posted themselves 
upon a. hillock, where they stood all drawn up together in one close body, 
except only the Thebans. The hillock whereof I speak is at the entrance 
of the Straits, where the stone lion stands which was set up in honour of 
Leonidas. Here they defended themselves to the last, such as still had 
swords using them, and the others resisting with their hands and teeth; till 
the barbarians, who in part had pulled down the wall and attacked them in 
front, in part had gone round and now encircled them upon every side, 
overwhelmed and buried the remnant left beneath showers of missile 
weapons. 

Ch. 226. — Thus nobly did the whole body of Lacedaemonians and Thes- 
pians behave ; but nevertheless one man is said to have distinguished himself 
above all the rest, to wit, Dieneces the Spartan. A speech which he made 
before the Greeks engaged the Medes remains on record. One of the 
Trachinians told him, " Such was the number of the barbarians, that when 
they shot forth their arrows the sun would be darkened by their multitude." 
Dieneces, not at all frightened at these words, but making light of the 
Median numbers, answered, " Our Trachinian friend brings us excellent 
tidings. If the Medes darken the sun, we shall have our fight in the shade." 
Other sayings, too, of a like nature are reported to have been left on record 
by this same person. 

Ch. 227. — Next to him two brothers, Lacedaemonians, are reputed to have 
made themselves conspicuous : they were named Alpheus and Maro, and 
were the sons of Orsiphantus. There was also a Thespian who gained 
greater glory than any of his countrymen : he was a man called Dithyrambus, 
the son of Harmatidas. 

Ch. 228. — The slain were buried where they fell, and in their honour, nor 
less in honour of those who died before Leonidas sent the allies away, an 
inscription was set up, which said, — 

" Here did four thousand men from Pelops' land 
Against three hundred myriads bravely stand." 

This was in honour of all. Another was for the Spartans alone : 

" Go, stranger, and to Lacedaemon tell 
That here, obeying her behests, we fell." 

This was for the Lacedaemonians: The seer had the following :— 

" The great Megistias' tomb you here may view, 
Whom slew the Medes, fresh from Spercheius' fords. 
Well the wise seer the coming death foreknew, 
Yet scorned he to forsake his Spartan lords." 

These inscriptions, and the pillars likewise, were all set up by the Amphic- 
tyons, except that in honour of Megistias, which was inscribed to him (on 
account of their sworn friendship) by Simonides, the son of Leoprepes. 



CHAPTER II.— THUCYDIDES. 

I. — The Vast Difference between Herodotus and Thucydides. The Life of Thu- 
cydides. His Conception of the Historian's Duty. His Modernness. His Lan- 
guage. II. — His Use of Speeches. His Self-control. III. — The Fame of his 
History. Its Presentation of Political Principles. IV. — The Sicilian Expedition. 

I. 

WHILE Herodotus, with his simplicity and credulity, thus belongs 
to a remote generation and has his roots in a period that had not 
broken with the mythical past, Thucydides stands as perhaps the 
most remarkable representative of the swiftly but thoroughly matured 
Athenian intellect. In fact, however, the two men, like Sophocles 
and Euripides, were very nearly contemporaries, Herodotus having been 
born about 484 B.C., and Thucydides probably not far from 471 B.C. ; 
yet this coincidence in time in no way expresses an identity of beliefs. 
When we read the younger historian we find a man who has broken 
loose from the old-fashioned notions that had prevailed from imme- 
morial time, and is eager to let his reason take the place of credulous 
imagination. The vastness of the change may be compared only with 
those that have taken place during the last half-century in some of 
the branches of science. 

Of the life of Thucydides but very little is definitely known. The 
varying dates of his birth rest on meager authority ; further than that 
he tells us himself that he suffered from the plague which ravaged 
Athens during the Peloponnesian war, that he held military command 
in the same conflict, and that he was banished in 424 B.C., for twenty 
years, direct information is lacking. The statement that he was assas- 
sinated in Thrace, where he owned gold-mines, completes the bio- 
graphic details that have come down to us. 

His mental attitude is, however, of far more importance, and with 
regard to this we have fortunately abundant means of judging. As 
has been indicated, the most striking thing about this is the complete 
rupture with the unscientific past ; it was the aim of Thucydides to 
describe things as they were, not to record them as they seemed to 
men who were trained for many generations to detect divine inter- 



534 THUCYDIDES. 

ference throughout the course of events. The omnipresence of this 
view among the poets is very evident ; we continually observe Pindar 
seizing a myth with which to adorn his odes, or Euripides introducing 
a god to adorn the end of his plays, as we now see novelists overriding 
probability and the truth to provide a loving couple with a fortune 
and a happy marriage. The whole history of Herodotus is an exposi- 




THUCYDIDES. 



tion of the ways of the divine beings in their control of human affairs. 
Of all this there is no sign in Thucydides ; he looks at the mythical 
past as many years of study have taught the men of the present day 
to look at it, not with contempt, but with the desire to find the facts 
that were hidden beneath the fantastic shapes and inventions that hid 
the early days. Thus, at the very beginning of the history, he says : 



THUCYDIDES' VIEW OF ANCIENT SOCIETY. 535 

" Judging from the evidence which I am able to trust after most careful 
inquiry, I should imagine that former ages were not great either in their 
wars or in anything else. 

" The country which is now called Hellas was not regularly settled in 
ancient times. The people were migratory, and readily left their homes 
whenever they were overpowered by numbers. There was no commerce, 
and they could not safely hold intercourse with one another either by land 
or sea." 

In this way he goes on, showing the uncivilized condition of the 
country in early times, and finally, on reaching the end of the sketch, 
he says : 

" Such are the results of my inquiry into the early state of Hellas. 
They will not readily be believed upon a bare recital of all the proofs of 
them. Men do not discriminate, and are too ready to receive ancient tra- 
ditions about their own as well as about other countries. . . . Yet, any one 
who upon the grounds which I have given arrives at some such conclusion 
as my own about these ancient times would not be far wrong. He must not 
be misled by the exaggerated fancies of the poets, or by the tales of 
chroniclers who seek to please the ear rather than to speak the truth. Their 
accounts can not be tested by him ; and most of the facts in the lapse of 
ages have passed into the region of romance. At such a distance of time 
he must make up his mind to be satisfied with conclusions resting upon the 
clearest evidence which can be had. And, though men will always judge 
any war in which they are actually fighting to be the greatest at the time, 
but, after it is over, revert to their admiration of some other which has pre- 
ceded, still the Peloponnesian, if estimated by the actual facts, will certainly 
prove to have been the greatest ever known." 

It would be hard to exaggerate the importance of this change in the 
point of view of the historian, which substituted the direct examination 
of evidence for the accumulation of poetical fancies. It is really the 
triumph of the intellect over the imagination which here finds expres- 
sion in these utterances of Thucydides. By a wonderful anticipation 
of the work of modern science, his vision of the early times as a period 
of crudity and barbarism is a direct contradiction of the fabulous 
stories of divine origin, of the worship of heroes, of the fanciful 
genealogies, which had long been celebrated in poetry, religious rites, 
and the fine arts. When we reflect how great has been the authority 
of these poetic conceptions over the imagination of subsequent genera- 
tions, so that even now Greece calls up to our minds the vision of 
beautiful unrealities, which archaeology is fast undoing, and when we 
consider the opposition that is felt to what is deemed irreverence 
towards the fascinating stories of the poets, and a still lurking feeling 
that archaeology may work everywhere else, but that here is sacred 
ground ; that the stone age of the Greeks was very different from the 
stone age of other races, that they were never real savages, but always 



53 6 THUCYDIDES. 

a somewhat exalted, half-inspired race, — when we consider all these 
things we can only give greater admiration to a people that could so 
swiftly develop and so speedily apply an intellectual test to the beliefs 
of centuries. No god-given superiority is greater than the power of 
using the intelligence ; and this quality is what made the Greeks great, 
not the divine interference which they were fond of picturing. 

Nothing in the history is more striking than the promptness with 
which Thucydides attained the position which we have only tardily 
reached, and it forms a most marked instance of the completeness as 
well as the rapidity of the intellectual development of the Greeks after 
the Persian war. That this rupture of the firm confidence in the 
stories of the poets could not happen without a diminution of the 
general trust in the religious myths is very obvious, and in this treat- 
ment of the past we see a distinct instance of the scepticism which 
soon pervaded Greek thought in many directions ; here, however, we 
may examine its first effect in furnishing the beginning of an accurate 
method of historical research. Not all that he says has received 
absolute approval in later times, yet there are many sentences that 
have a distinctly modern sound, as when, for example, he makes men- 
tion of the early pirates. 

"They were commanded," he says, "by powerful chiefs, who took this 
means of increasing their wealth and providing for their poorer followers. 
They would fall upon the unwalled and straggling towns, or rather villages, 
which they plundered, and maintained themselves by the plunder of them ; 
for, as yet, such an occupation was held to be honourable and not disgraceful. 
This is proved by the practice of certain tribes on the mainland who, to the 
present day, glory in piratical exploits, and by the witness of the ancient 
poets, in whose verses the question is invariably asked of newly-arrived 
voyagers, whether they are pirates ; which implies that neither those who are 
questioned disclaim, nor those who are interested in knowing censure the 
occupation. The land, too, was infested by robbers. . . . The fashion of 
wearing arms among these continental tribes is a relic of their old predatory 
habits. For in ancient times all Hellenes carried weapons because their 
homes were undefended and intercourse was unsafe ; like the Barbarians, 
they went armed in their every-day life. And the continuance of the 
custom in certain parts of the country proves that it once prevailed 
everywhere." 

Might one not be reading a book published only the day before 
yesterday? This application of the intelligence to facts and the 
observation of the value of custom as a proof of earlier habit have 
certainly a very modern sound, and are very unlike the smooth gossip 
of Herodotus. They are very satisfactory indications of the scientific 
spirit applying itself to the discussion of historical problems. Those, 
and they are many, who suffer from the fear that this spirit is destruc- 



NOVELTY OF THUCYDIDES' TREATMENT OF HISTORY. 537 

tive of poetry, will do well to remember that Thucydides was the 
contemporary of Sophocles and Euripides, that Shakspere was the 
contemporary of Bacon, and Milton of Harvey. If they are right in 
their fears, and poetry exists only in conjunction with unquestioning- 
credulity, its fate is certain and desirable. As it is, poetry has never 
yet been injured by an excess of real wisdom. They may also console 
themselves for the inevitable by recalling the fact that music has not 
been ruined by the application of scientific treatment. 

Whatever may be the future fate of poetry, there can be no doubt 
that history has a higher value when subjected to scientific treatment ; 
the capacity of listening to both sides, and the readiness to examine 
all testimony by the laws of evidence, is sure to produce better work 
than will blind confidence in mere report. Thucydides himself was by 
no means unconscious of the change that he was making in his treat- 
ment of history. Thus, in the same introductory pages from which 
quotations have been already made, he says : 

"Of the events of the war I have not ventured to speak from any chance 
information, nor according to any notion of my own ; I have described 
nothing but what I either saw myself, or learned from others from whom I 
made the most careful and particular inquiry. The task was a laborious 
one, because eye-witnesses of the same occurrences gave different accounts 
of them, as they remembered or were interested in the actions of one side 
or the other. And very likely the strictly historical character of my narra- 
tive may be disappointing to the ear. But if he who desires to have before 
his eyes a true picture of the events which have happened, and of the like 
events which may be expected to happen hereafter in the order of human 
things, shall pronounce what I have written to be useful, then I shall be sat- 
isfied. My history is an everlasting procession, not a prize composition, 
which is heard and forgotten." 

This explicit statement, with its half apology, makes it clear that 
Thucydides was aware of the novelty of the step he was taking, and of 
the criticism that was probably awaiting him. Herodotus supplied 
entertainment ; he would give exact information, and with the per- 
formance of this plan scientific history was begun, and Athens showed 
that it had reached maturity in prose as well as in poetry and art. The 
style of Thucydides, to be sure, is harsh and confused, as is natural ; 
for only practice can give grace and smoothness. The orators had 
this practice, and thus earlier acquired the facility which was made 
easier for them by the example of the dramatists, who put into the 
mouths of their characters long pleadings that reflected the Athenian 
love of argument and discussion. Thus Antiphon, Andocides and Lysias 
are not at all obscure. In Thucydides, however, we often find a cumbrous, 
awkward movement which is thus described and explained in the intro- 
duction to Jowett's translation : " He who considers that Thucydides 



53 8 THUCYDIDES. 

was a great genius writing in an ante-grammatical age, when logic was 
just beginning to be cultivated, who had thoughts far beyond his con- 
temporaries, and who had great difficulty in the arrangement and ex- 
pression of them, who is anxious but not always able to escape tau- 
tology, will not be surprised at his personifications, at his confusion of 
negatives and affirmatives, of consequents and antecedents, at his im- 
perfect antitheses and involved parentheses, at his employment of the 
participle to express abstract ideas in the making, at his substitution 
of one construction for another, at his repetition of a word, or unmean- 
ing alteration of it for the sake of variety, at his over-logical form, at 
his forgetfulness of the beginning of a sentence before he arrives at 
the end of it. The solecisms or barbarisms of which he is supposed to 
be guilty are the natural phenomena of a language in a time of transi- 
tion. . . . They are also to be ascribed to a strong individuality, 
which subtilizes, which rationalizes, which concentrates, which crowds 
the use of words, which thinks more than it can express." 

Many of the characteristics of his language are, moreover, such as 
belonged to the general form of the new prose which, as will be seen 
later, was now establishing itself in Athens ; and some of its peculiar- 
ities were due, perhaps, to his long absence from that city, which de- 
prived him of the opportunity of acquiring the rapidly developing per- 
fection which it then assumed. He carried away with him a crude 
instrument and was compelled to model it in shape after his own 
devices, and possibly in his perpetual antitheses and harsh construc- 
tions gives us the outline which the Athenians enriched with many 
graceful forms. Few, however, put language to so severe a test as he ; 
and throughout one of the main causes of his obscurity was his desire 
to avoid clouding his meaning by an excessive use of words. The 
compactness of the sentences makes them hard to understand, and it 
is not the degenerate moderns alone who have found him difficult: 
even the ancients complained of his abstruseness. 

II. 

One of the striking things about his method is the custom of placing 
speeches in the mouths of different characters, in such a way that much 
of the story is set in a dramatic form before the reader. We find a 
similar device frequently employed by Homer, who faithfully reports 
the speeches at the councils of the heroes, instead of merely narrating 
what was done ; and Herodotus continues the same practice. Its ad- 
vantage in the way of vividness is very evident ; and to those who 
were accustomed to listen rather than to read, its merits were most 
conspicuous. Thucydides inherited the plan from good sources, and 




{From Temple of Nike., Memorial of Persian Wars.) 



5 4-0 THUC YDIDES. 

so well-established a device had to be put into use, exactly as every 
old relic has to have a place provided for it by thrifty heirs. What he 
did was to give the reader not so much exactly what the characters 
said as what they might have said under the given conditions. He is 
careful, however, to explain his course of action, stating that it would 
have been very difficult for him to report the exact language of either 
what he had heard with his own ears, or what had been reported to 
him by credible witnesses, and that consequently he decided to put 
down what, all things considered, was most likely to be said, always 
adhering as closely as possible to the general sense of the words used. 

" As to the speeches," to quote his own language, " which were made 
either before or during the war, it was hard for me, and for others who re- 
ported them to me, to recollect the exact words. I have therefore put into 
the mouth of each speaker the sentiments proper to the occasion, expressed 
as I thought he would be likely to express them, while at the same time I 
endeavoured, as nearly as I could, to give the general purport of what was 
actually said." 

Undoubtedly then he treated the inherited custom with new ex- 
actitude. 

We shall see later convincing proof of the general accuracy of his 
statement about the speeches, and the whole book stands as a justifica- 
tion of his boast that he had written an everlasting composition. The 
momentousness of the war which he undertook to describe found a fit 
chronicler in Thucydides, and his seriousness is amply proved by the 
extracts given above. Quite as remarkable is his impartiality, his 
freedom from personal feeling. This quality shows itself in various 
ways : the manner in which he speaks of Cleon is a marked instance 
of his continual self-control ; less than half a dozen times does he have 
occasion to characterize that notorious demagogue, and then his harsh- 
est condemnation is to call him violent, " the most violent of the citi- 
zens," who " at that time exercised by far the greatest influence over 
the people," and elsewhere he merely says that he was " a popular 
leader of the day who had the greatest influence over the multitude." 
In another place he says that Cleon hated peace, " because he fancied 
that in quiet times his rogueries would be more transparent and his 
slanders less credible." Contemporary judgment is not always so 
calm, as those who saw the plays of Aristophanes would have been 
willing to testify. Even more remarkable is his unflinching devotion 
to the duty of a historian to record events and not to treat the world 
to his views about them. If he does this faithfully, he is safe in leav- 
ing the facts to produce the desired result without aid from him, and 
if he fails to record accurately, no amount of enthusiasm will long im- 



IMPARTIALITY AND SELF-CONTROL OF THUCYDIDES. 541 

pose upon the world ; yet too often historians, like their brother- 
writers, the novelists, appeal to their readers by exaggeration and 
eloquence instead of their legitimate weapons, description and nar- 
ration. We notice especially in Thucydides the absence of expression 
of moral judgments, yet in the pages of no other historian does the 
truth burn so vividly into the heart of the reader as in his, which are 
carefully kept free from praise or blame. Thus, when Plataea surren- 
dered to the Lacedaemonians, its inhabitants were put to death by 
their conquerors. Thucydides, following his usual fashion, lets them 
plead for mercy ; and these are some of the words that he places in 
their mouths : 

" Yet once more for the sake of those gods in whose name we made a 
league of old, and for our services to the cause of Hellas, relent and change 
your minds, if the Thebans have at all influenced you : in return for the 
wicked request which they make of you, ask of them the righteous boon 
that you should not slay us to your own dishonour. .Do not bring upon 
yourselves an evil name merely to gratify others. For, although you may 
quickly take our lives, you will not so easily obliterate the memory of the 
deed. We are not enemies whom you might rightly punish, but friends who 
were compelled to go to war with you; and therefore piety demands that you 
should spare our lives. Before you pass judgment, consider that we surren- 
dered ourselves, and stretched out our hands to you ; the custom of Hellas 
does not allow the suppliant to be put to death. Remember, too, that we 
have ever been your benefactors. Cast your eyes upon the sepulchres of 
your fathers slain by the Persians and buried in our land, whom we have 
honoured by a yearly public offering of garments, and other customary gifts. 
We were their friends, and we gave them the first-fruits in their season of 
that friendly land in which they rest ; we were their allies too, who in times 
past had fought at their side ; and if you now pass an unjust sentence, will 
not your conduct strangely contrast with ours ? Reflect : when Pausanias 
buried them here, he thought that he was laying them among friends 
and in friendly earth. But if you put us to death, and make Plataea one 
with Thebes, are you not robbing your fathers and kindred of the 
honour which they enjoy, and leaving them in a hostile land inhabited by 
their murderers? Nay, more, you enslave the land in which the Hellenes 
won their liberty ; you bring desolation upon the temples in which they 
prayed when they conquered the Persians ; and you take away the sacri- 
fices which our fathers instituted from the city which ordained and estab- 
lished them. 

These things, O Lacedaemonians, would not be for your honor. They 
would be an offense against the common feeling of Hellas and against your 
ancestors. You should be ashamed to put us to death, who are your bene- 
factors and have never done you any wrong, in order that you may gratify 
the enmity of another. Spare us, and let your heart be softened toward us ; 
be wise and have mercy upon us, considering not only how terrible will be 
our fate, but who the sufferers are ; think, too, of the uncertainty of fortune, 
which may strike any one, however innocent. We implore you, as is becom- 
ing and natural in our hour of need, by the gods whom the Hellenes wor- 
ship at common altars, to listen to our prayers. We appeal to the oaths 



542 



THUCYDIDES. 



which our fathers swore, and entreat you not to forget them. 
at your fathers' tombs," etc. 



We kneel 



Do these passionate appeals, these solemn invocations, need any 
exposition on the part of Thucydides to show us how wicked he 
thought treachery to be, how repulsive cold-blooded slaughter ? 
Then he goes on to let the Thebans point out instances of similar 
ill-treatment of their prisoners by the Plataeans : 

" Now we do not so much complain of the fate of those whom you slew 
in battle — for they suffered by a kind of law — but there were others who 
stretched out their hands to you ; and although you gave them quarter, and 
then promised to us that you would spare them, in utter defiance of law you 
took their lives — was not that a cruel act ? " 




HONORING THE TOMBS OF THE HEROIC DEAD. 



When he says this, there is no room for impertinent judgment ; the 
story is told, and he has only to record that they took out each man 
separately, asked him if he had done any service to the Lacedaemo- 
nians and their allies in the war. 



" When he said no, they took him away and slew him; no one was spared. 
They put to death not less than two hundred Plataeans, as well as twenty- 
five Athenians who had shared with them in the siege ; and made slaves of 
the women." 

A similar absence of praise or blame marks the whole book ; we 
sec, we are not told to admire, the bravery and military skill of Bras- 



RETICENCE OF THE HISTORIAN IN PASSING JUDGMENT. 543 

idas, the Spartan commander ; the pernicious course of Alcibiades is 
set before us without superfluous comment, and in the account, given 
below, of the Sicilian expedition, we behold the Athenian general 
Nicias letting everything go amiss by his dilatoriness and incompe- 
tence, without having the obvious lessons pointed out by the writer. 
In other words, he thoroughly respects his readers ; he does not find 
it necessary to tell them what they ought to think, but he rather 
exercises the reasonable flattery of supposing that they will be able 
to draw right conclusions from the facts if these are properly set 
before them. 

With regard to Antiphon, the head of a dangerous revolution, he 
observes his usual reticence, or indeed something more than his usual 
reticence, and the question of the guilt of that leader remains unde- 
termined. A more striking instance of his reserve is in his avoidance 
of partisanship with regard to the great conflict between Athens and 
Sparta, between what we may call the new and the old spirit of Greece, 
between the disposition to form a union and the aversion to any aban- 
donment of the principle of separate municipal independence. What 
Thucydides felt in the matter is known ; but he tells the story with- 
out adjudging praise or blame, showing the merits as well as the de- 
fects of both sides with unequalled impartiality. This is his claim to 
the admiration of all his readers : he told his story, we are free to 
form our opinions as we please. There are, at least, the facts with 
which our opinions must finally conform. 

The matter of the immortal book of Thucydides belongs rather 
to Greek history than to the study of literature, for it is a thorough 
chronicle of warlike events narrated in chronological order, year by 
year, and presenting a most vivid picture of that miserable war. Cer- 
tain chapters burn themselves strongly on the memory, as, for exam- 
ple, those describing the plague that devastated Athens in the second 
year of the war. The wretched citizens were closely confined within 
the walls, and the pest had full sway among a populace wholly igno- 
rant of sanitary principles. Thucydides himself was attacked by it, 
and he was also an eye-witness of all its horrors. 

" At the very beginning of the second summer the Peloponnesians and 
their allies, with two-thirds of their forces, as on the first occasion, invaded 
Attica, under the command of Archidamus, the son of Zeuxidamas, king of 
the Lacedaemonians ; and after encamping, they laid waste the country. 
When they had not yet been many days in Attica, the plague first began to 
show itself among the Athenians, though it was said to have previously smitten 
many places, about Lemnos and elsewhere. Such a pestilence, however, 
and loss of life as this were nowhere remembered to have happened. For 
neither were physicians of any avail at first, treating it, as they did, in igno- 
rance of its nature — nay, they themselves died most of all, inasmuch as 



5 44 THUC YDIDES. 

they most visited the sick — nor any other art of man. And as to the sup- 
plications that they offered in their temples or the divinations, and similar 
means that they had recourse to, they were all unavailing ; and at last they 
ceased from them, being overcome by the weight of the calamity." 



" The disease then, to pass over many peculiar traits, as it differed in 
different cases, was in general such as I have described. And none of the 
usual diseases prevailed at the same time ; or if they did appear, they turned 
into this. And of those who were attacked by the plague, some died in 
neglect, others encompassed by every attention. And there was no settled 
remedy which brought relief, for what was good for one wrought harm to 
another. And no constitution, whether strong or weak, was secure against 
it, but it attacked all alike, even those who were most careful about their 
diet. But the most terrible part of the whole misery was the despair that 
seized every one who felt himself sickening — for by yielding to this despair 
they gave way without resistance to the disease — and the fact that they 
carried the contagion from one to another and so died like sheep. This 
caused the greatest mortality among them, for if from fear they were averse 
to visiting one another, they perished from being left untended, and many 
houses were emptied for want of some one to wait on the sick ; and if they 
did visit them, they came to their death, and especially such as were reputed 
to be kind, for shame made them tireless in visiting the houses of their 
friends, since even the members of the family were at last worn of mourning 
for the dying, and were overwhelmed by their excessive misery. Those 
who had recovered from the plague showed still more pity for the sick and 
dying, both because they knew from their own experience what they felt, and 
because they no longer felt any fear, for the disease never attacked them 
twice, so as to prove fatal. Such persons were congratulated by others, and 
in the excess of their joy, they nourished a vain hope for the future that they 
were now secure against every form of disease." 

Even more interesting is the account of the recklessness that the 
plague produced : 

" Things which before men did secretly, not daring to give full rein to their 
lusts, they now did freely, seeing the swift change in the case of those who were 
rich and died suddenly, and of the poor who succeeded to their wealth. So 
they determined upon swift enjoyment and immediate gratification, regarding 
life and wealth as things of a day. As for exertion in behalf of honourable 
things, no one cared for it, in view of the uncertainty whether he might not 
be cut off before he attained it, but everything that was immediately 
pleasant or led to it in any way whatsoever, was held to be honourable and 
expedient. Fear of the gods or law of men there was none to restrain them : 
in the one case they thought it all the same whether they worshiped them 
or not, inasmuch as all perished alike, in the other none expected to live 
long enough to be tried and punished, but that a severe penalty hung over 
them and that they should have some enjoyment of life before it fell." 

Then he goes on to mention an old saying, that a Dorian war should 
come, and a plague with it ; there was some uncertainty, however, 



HIS MODERNNESS— ABSTENTION FROM EMBELLISHMENT. 545 

whether it was a plague or a famine — the words in Greek being very 
similar — that should accompany the war. 

" Now," Thucydides said, " the opinion prevailed that a plague had been 
mentioned, many adapting their recollections to their experience. But if at 
any time in the future there should be a Dorian war and a famine at the 
same time, in all probability they will quote the line to that effect." 

It is these touches of impassibility that give this historian his air of 
modernness and mark the enormous stride made in the few years that 
had elapsed since Herodotus wrote. This change, indeed, is obvious 
in every page as one notices the firm grasp that Thucydides had of his 
subject and his omission of all extraneous matter. Nothing can exceed 
his grim exclusion of all the decorative part of historical writing; it 
almost seems as if he felt that the facts of life were of too vast impor- 
tance to be hidden beneath fine writing. This serious view of the 
solemnity of history was of influence in limiting his attention to the 
military events of the great war. He did his best, one might almost 
say, to write a log-book of the long contest, carefully omitting those 
general views regarding society which later times have learned to 
notice in proportion as they have recognized the fact that life is a unit, 
that war, peace, art, letters, religion, society, are but different, though 
interwoven, manifestations of the greater human life that can not be 
studied exclusively in any one of its numberless forms. Even now 
this is barely accepted as a theory and still less in practice, and it has 
required for its statement many centuries of experience, so that there 
is no cause for wonder that it should have escaped Thucydides. 
Moreover, the narrowness of Greek interests and the exclusiveness of 
political life which only seldom looked beyond the walls of a single 
city, blinded even the most intelligent to the wider view. 

It is moreover obvious that in writing a chronicle of contemporary 
events the historian takes it for granted that those for whom he writes 
are perfectly familiar with all that we may call the atmosphere of the 
surrounding conditions. Any references that he might have made to 
the intellectual or artistic interests of the time in which he lived, how- 
ever much they would have gratified our curiosity, which by education 
concerns itself mainly about the writings and works of art of the Greeks, 
would have blurred the distinctness of the picture which he undertook 
to draw of the political and military events. These alone formed his 
subject, to which he confined himself with strict care, with this single 
object in view, and the result is a justification of his dignified boast 
that he was preparing an everlasting possession. Like every really 
great book, it repels everything but the most exalted curiosity ; 
inferior work always tempts our idle moments ; only a high enthusiasm 



546 THUCYDIDES. 

can keep us alert for what is best, in literature or art, as in conduct. 
Hence, the history of Thucydides is in no way popular, but for those 
who study its powerful pages, full of compressed truth, it is full of the 
most valuable lessons. 

In the speeches we find a full exposition of the political principles 
that inspired the war. Everything in Greece, it will be remembered, 
at least every public act, was the object of discussion on the part of 
the whole assembly of free citizens, and it was by presenting the various 
arguments and explanations of the leading men under the form of 
speeches that Thucydides made what he had to say most intelligible 
to his public, and employed the form that doubtless first suggested 
itself to his mind. For just as now the newspapers maintain a per- 
petual comment on public affairs and exercise an enormous influence 
on men's minds, so then it was oral discussion, argument in the form 
of speeches, that formed and expressed public opinion. It was not 
precisely what we should understand as oratory that distinguished 
these speeches, for that word conveys to our minds a vague notion of 
an artificial, conventional form of more or less imaginary entertainment, 
and these discussions had a direct practical value as the mechanism of 
politics. These speeches then are not fantastic oratorical utterances, 
they are rather full of the forcible and eloquent treatment of political 
questions. 

Even if we have not the exact words of the various speakers, what 
is put in their mouths thus possesses great historical value, for in a 
contemporary history Thucydides must have kept very near the exact 
truth. Even if we imagine him to have discarded what would have 
seemed to him such over-precision as the observance of dialectic pecu- 
liarities, the dramatic vividness that he retained is most valuable. 
Thus the speech of Alcibiades, in the sixth book, can be only the 
statement of facts familiar to all the historian's fellow-citizens. 

" Athenians, I have not only a better title than others to the command — 
a topic with which, attacked as I have been by Nicias, I am compelled to 
commence — but I also consider myself personally worthy of it ; since the 
very qualities for which I am denounced not only reflect honour on myself 
and my ancestors, but are of positive advantage to my country. In proof 
of this latter assertion, I need only remind you that the Greeks, who had 
previously hoped that the resources of our capital had been pulled down by 
the war, were induced even to overrate them by the magnificent style in 
which I represented Athens at the Olympic festival, when I sent down seven 
chariots to the lists — more than any private citizen had ever entered — gain- 
ing a first, a second, and a fourth prize : nor did the style of my equipments 
disparage the lustre of my triumph. Public opinion honours trophies such as 
these : and the pageantry itself creates an impression of power. Again, the 
distinction with which, within the city, I have served the office of choregus, 
among other public functions, though it may naturally excite the envy of a 



THE SPEECHES— ALCIBIADES. 



547 



fellow-citizen, is, to the eye of a foreigner, eloquent of large resources. My 
wild extravagance, then, as you call it, is not devoid of use, when its votary 
serves the public as well as his personal interests at his own cost. And it 
certainly is not unfair that a man who is proud of his wealth and station 
should repudiate equality with the mass ; society acts on this principle every 
day : the man of broken fortunes, for instance, finds none to share his 
calamity. On the contrary, just as people take no notice of us in our hour 
of adversity, must they, when their turn of misfortune comes, brook the 
disdain of prosperity; they can only expect others to make no differ- 
ence toward them when they deal 
with them on that principle." 

Certainly one has here, if not 
the words, at least the thoughts 
of the speaker, uttered with a 
vigour and air of reality that the 
actual scene could not have sur- 
passed. Whatever may have been 
the characteristics of Greek elo- 
quence, it had the advantage of 
being practical, and in some of 
the later passages of this speech 
we find the serious consideration 
of important questions. This is 
the way in which he urged the 
Athenians to the ill-fated Sicilian 
expedition : 

" What excuse can we plead to our 
Sicilian allies for failing to succour 
them ? We certainly ought to aid 
them, especially as we have actually 
sworn to do so, instead of content- 
ing ourselves with the counterplea 
that they have never aided us. For, 
when we espoused their alliance, it 
was not with the view of their re- 
turning the favour by coming here 
to fight for us : we hoped they 
would keep our Sicilian foes con- 
stantly embroiled, and prevent their assailing us at home. Besides, it 
was by a policy of intervention that we, in common with all who ever 
won dominion, acquired our empire ; it was by heartily assisting com- 
munities, whether Greek or barbarian, which from time to time invoked 
our aid. Indeed, if there were no dissensions to interfere in, and if 
distinctions of race were made in choosing whom to succour, the exten- 
sion of our empire would be a very slow process ; or, rather, we should 
run a risk of losing it altogether. For every state is on the watch not only 
to repel the aggression of a superior power, but to defeat, by anticipation, 




ALCIBIADES. 



(Bust in the Chiaramonti Museum in Rome.) 



548 THUCYDIDES. 

the possibility of such aggression. And it is oat of the question for us to 
cut and carve at pleasure the area of our rule : we are compelled, by our 
position as an imperial city, to intrigue systematically for the subjection of 
one state, while we tighten our rein upon another : threatened as we are 
with the risk of foreign subjugation, should we halt in our career of aggran- 
dizement. In your situation, you cannot regard political quietism from 
the same point of view as other communities, unless, at the same time, you 
choose to recast your national character and pursuits on the model of 
theirs." 



Whether Alcibiades actually used these arguments is certainly an 
important question, but even if he did not, the fact that a contempo- 
rary could utter them in this form is also important. It may be un- 
certain which deserves the credit, the brilliant leader or the historian ; 
it is at least sure that it was possible for a man of this time to see the 
condition of things and to represent it in this form. Just as an intel- 
ligent statement about human nature is one that enforces its truth 
upon every one that hears it, so these vivid political controversies 
remind the modern reader quite as much of recent as of ancient 
history, for the ambitions of men, and the arguments by which they 
defend them, are the same at all times : the main difference lies in 
the quality of the words in which they disguise or express them. The 
firmness with which Thucydides sets the condition of things before 
those who study his immortal book justifies his method ; the speeches 
are full of lessons, they make clear the enthusiasm that called the 
history " the eternal manual of statesmen." His own essential quality 
is to be seen in the exclusion of everything that is trivial and com- 
monplace. Yet the fashion that he set was one that helped to produce 
much inaccurate work in later times. Livy and Tacitus, as Sir G. C. 
Lewis said, regarded " a deliberation in a popular body, or a military 
harangue, as an opportunity for rhetorical display, and composed 
speeches in prose with as much freedom as a dramatist would in 
verse." Indeed, they often abandoned the texts that lay at hand for 
speeches of their own invention, which they much preferred. His- 
tory has always suffered from being misplaced among the fine arts, 
instead of being treated as a science. 

Later, the reader will find some examples of the eloquence that is 
reported by Thucydides — with what exactness can not now be defi- 
nitely ascertained — but this is not all on which his fame rests. The 
strict impartiality of his chronicle, the dignified avoidance of partisan- 
ship, have won all praise. The chronological division of events lends 
a monotony, a lack of picturesqueness, to the style of the book, but its 
veracity overcomes this slight objection. The history consists of 
eight books, although this division was not made by Thucydides him- 



COMPOSITION AND ARRANGEMENT OF THE HISTORY. 



549 



self ; the first is of the nature of a general introduction, in which the 
author expresses his opinion of the magnitude and importance of the 
war which he had undertaken to describe, and he tries to show by a 
brief recital of the traditions of antiquity and a fuller exposition of 
recent events how it was that the war broke out. For some time after 
the Trojan war, the importance of which he thought to have been 
naturally much exaggerated by the poets, the migrations of the Greek 
peoples went on ; finally 
matters settled them- 
selves, and the Greeks 
began to send out colo- 
nies. Meanwhile, as the 
colonies spread among the 
islands and in Asia Minor, 
the Persian Empire arose, 
and conquered these 
Greek neighbors. Greece 
itself was pitiably enfee- 
bled by the power of the 
tyrants who held the vari- 
ous cities in subjection and 
prevented all common ac- 
tion ; Sparta alone escaped 
this oppressive form of 
government. The way in 
which the mother-country 
aided the colonists when 
defeated, attracted the at- 
tention of the Persians and 
evoked the great wars, in 
which the Athenians were 
first victorious at Mara- 
thon. Ten years later 
Xerxes came with his 
huge host to destroy 
Greece. The Athenians 
defeated him by sea, and 

the Lacedaemonians by land, and the country was saved. For a 
short time afterward the confederacy held together, but then the 
Lacedaemonians and Athenians, the strongest members, one by land, 
the other by sea, quarreled and fought. A thirty years' truce, how- 
ever, put an end to this state of things, until natural jealousies again 
aroused them, and they fell apart over the controversies of the Corin- 




THEMISTOCLES. 



55° THUCYDIDES. 

thians and Corcyreans concerning the city of Epidamnus : the Corcy- 
reans found support in Athens, and the Corinthians, in revenge, per- 
suaded Potidsea to revolt, and induced the Lacedaemonians to declare 
their belief that the peace was broken, and that war should begin. 
Then Thucydides explains how Athens had attained its leadership 
after the Persian wars, in part by the merits of Themistocles, in part 
by the treachery of Pausanias, whose stories are told at some length. 
Finally the Lacedaemonians sent an embassy to announce that they 
would abstain from war if the Athenians would leave the Greeks inde- 
pendent, and an assembly of the people was called, in which Pericles 
induces the Athenians to prefer war to such a concession. Thus the 
actual story of the war begins only with the second book. The 
account of the hostilities up to the time of the peace of Nicias occu- 
pies about half the space, while the rest is taken up with an account 
of the five years' truce, the Sicilian expedition, and the later occur- 
rences to the battle of Cyzicus, in the twenty-first year of the war. -His 
death prevented the completion of the whole story ; indeed, it is said 
that the eighth book was brought out by Xenophon ; the exact amount 
of his work is not to be determined. 

III. 

This history early found, not popularity, but enthusiastic admira- 
tion from competent judges among the ancients. It was said that 
Thucydides imitated ^Eschylus, Pindar, Antiphon, Prodicus, Euripides, 
and Homer, a statement which shows conclusively what authors were 
most esteemed by the utterer of this lavish outburst of praise. Quin- 
tilian made an intelligent comparison between the fluent, easy, con- 
versational grace of Herodotus and the brevity of Thucydides which 
sounds as if he were speaking in a deliberate assembly. Cicero called 
him a great historian, and said that he was weighty in words, rich in 
thoughts, but sometimes obscure from compression. Dionysius of 
Halicarnassus, however, expressed the opinion that has been echoed 
by countless students, when he said that the style of Thucydides was 
affected, hard, confused, childish, and puzzling. The laudation, it must 
be remembered, was the exception, for he was never popular. Not 
every one cares most for precious metals in nuggets. Yet those who 
admired him more than made up for the lack of general applause 
which a man who strives to be impartial never expects to receive. 
The history was said by the ancients to be like a tragedy, a com- 
parison which shows what was regarded by them as the highest lite- 
rary product, for it was the sequence of events that made the resem- 
blance to the tragedy, quite as much as the execution of the book. 



MEMORIAL SPEECH BY PERICLES. 



551 



A certain similarity is to be found, it is true, in the form that Thu- 
cydides adopted, that of letting the speeches elucidate the actions, but 
just as now any picture, poem, or what not, is said to be like a piece 
of 'music, so then resemblance to a tragedy was the expression of the 
highest praise. 

As a further example of the eloquence of the speeches that he 
introduces into his 
book, no better ex- 
ample can be found 



no 

can 

than the funeral 
speech uttered by, or 
invented for Pericles. 
It was spoken in 
honor of the Athe- 
nian citizens who had 
fallen in battle in 
the first year of the 
war, B.C. 431. 

" Most of the previ- 
ous speakers on these 
occasions have com- 
mended the statesman 
who made an oration 
a part of the funeral 
ceremony, considering 
its delivery a fitting 
tribute to the brave 
men who have fallen 
in battle, and are 
brought here for burial. 
In my opinion, how- 
ever, it would have 
been well that the 
honours due to men 
who have proved their 
valour by their deeds in 
arms should be paid in 
deeds rather than in 
words ; such, for in- 
stance, as the public 
celebration of this 
funeral, instead of stak- 




PERICLES. 
{From the bust in the Louvre?) 



ing the reputation of 
many on one man, so 
as to make it depend 
on his speaking well 
or ill. It is a hard 
task to hit the mean, 
when there is a special 
difficulty in impressing 
the audience with a 
conviction of the 
truth of what is told 
them. An audience 
favorably disposed and 
familiar with the sub- 
ject, naturally thinks 
the picture feebly 
drawn, compared with 
its own wishes and 
convictions ; while per- 
sons unacquainted with 
the facts even suspect 
exaggeration, their 
jealousy being aroused, 
when they hear any- 
thing that transcends 
their own capacity. 
The fact is, eulogies of 
other men are toler- 
able only when the 
individuals addressed 
believe themselves able 
to achieve some of the 
feats attributed to 
others ; the moment 
they are surpassed they 
begin to be jealous, 
and then they disbe- 
lieve. However, as 
this branch of the sol- 
emnity has been delib- 
endeavor, in conforming, like 



erately approved by our forefathers, I must 

my predecessors, to the ordinance, to meet the wishes and sentiments of each 

of you as nearly as I can. 

" Our ancestors claim my earliest praise ; for it is only just, and it is quite 
in harmony with the present occasion, that a tribute of honourable remem- 



55 2 THUCYDIDES. 

brance should be offered them, whose virtues maintained and handed down 
to our own days, through a long line of successors, the purity of their race 
and the integrity of their freedom. But, worthy of eulogy as they are, our 
fathers are still more so. Not content with maintaining the territory they 
inherited, they acquired and bequeathed to us of this generation our exist- 
ing dominion, the fruit of many struggles. That dominion, however, has 
been largely aggrandized by our own efforts : by the efforts - of the. men now 
before you, still, for the most part, in the prime of life : and our country has 
been richly endowed with all the appliances of perfect independence, 
whether for war or peace. The military achievements of these heroes, 
whereby the several accessions of territory were won, and the threatened 
invasions, foreign or Greek, which our fathers or ourselves have bravely 
repulsed from our shores, I will not now detail, as I have no desire to be 
prolix before an audience so familiar with our history. I must, however, 
dwell for a moment on the training which gained us empire, on the form of 
government, the habits and the principles which raised that empire to great- 
ness, before I proceed with my panegyric, believing the topic at once con- 
genial to the occasion, and suited to the whole of my audience, whether 
Athenians or strangers. 

" The constitution we enjoy is not copied from a foreign code : we are 
rather a pattern to, than imitators of, other states. It goes by the name of 
a democracy, because it is administered for the benefit of the many, not of 
the few. It is so constituted, that, if we look to the laws, we shall find all 
Athenians on a footing of perfect equality as to the decision of their private 
suits ; if we look to the popular estimate of political capacity, distinction in 
the public service will be found to depend on merit, weighed by a man's emi- 
nence in his own calling, not on caste. Nor again is poverty any exclusion, 
when a man, however humble his rank, is able to serve his country. A 
spirit of freedom regulates alike our public and our private life : we tol- 
erate, without a particle of jealousy, varieties in each other's daily pursuits : 
we are not angry with our neighbour for following the bent of his humour ; nor 
do our faces wear censorious looks, harmless, perhaps, but odious. In pri- 
vate society, our politeness insures harmony : in public life, fear is our prin- 
cipal check on illegal acts : we obey the magistrates who are from time to 
time in authority, and the laws, especially those enacted to protect the 
oppressed, and that unwritten code whose sanction is a common sense of 
shame. 

"Abundant recreation, too, to recruit our spirits, when jaded by the cares of 
business, is supplied by the very festivals which the Dorians ridicule, and 
the customary solemnities of sacrifice throughout the year, as well as by the 
splendour of our private establishments, our daily enjoyment of which scares 
melancholy away. Owing to the magnitude of our capital, the luxuries of 
every clime pour themselves into our hands, and it is our good fortune to 
enjoy the products of other realms as familiarly as the fruits of our own 
soil. 

" Another remarkable contrast between ourselves and our rivals lies in the 
difference of our methods of training for war. The following are the salient 
points : We throw open our gates to all the world ; no alien acts exclude 
any of our foes from learning or seeing anything, the revelation of which 
may be of any service to them : for we do not trust so much to precon- 
certed stratagems as to that courage in action which springs from our own 
nature. Again, in education, our rivals set out in pursuit of manly qualities 



554 THUCYDIDES. 

by a laborious course of training commenced in childhood : yet we, though 
living at our ease, are perfectly ready to encounter dangers quite as great 
as theirs, — an assertion I can prove by facts ; when the Lacedaemonians in- 
vade our realm, it is never with mere detachments, but at the head of their 
collective force. In our case, when we march against their territory, it is 
with Athenian troops only, with whom, though struggling on a foreign soil 
against men who are fighting for their own hearths, we generally gain an 
easy victory. In fact, not one of our enemies has ever yet encountered our 
united force, because we have to provide for our navy as well as our army, 
and are constantly despatching our native troops on so many expeditions by 
land. If ever they engage a fraction of our troops, and get the better of a 
few of us, they pretend to have defeated us all : while, if repulsed, they say 
they have been defeated by all. And yet — to revert to what I was just 
now saying — if we, who live under a luxurious system instead of a toilsome 
training, if we, whose courage is the gift of nature, rather than the fruit of 
discipline, are, as I hope, just as ready to brave danger: a double advan- 
tage is gained ; we do not suffer from the anticipation of impending perils: 
and when we meet them, we do not yield in courage to the slaves of a life- 
long drill. 

" On other grounds, too, I claim admiration for our country. Our fondness 
for art is free from extravagance, nor do our literary tastes make us effem- 
inate ; wealth we use as an opportunity for action, not for ostentatious talk : 
poverty we think it no disgrace to avow, though we do think it a disgrace 
not to try to avoid it by industry. Among our countrymen political and 
social duties are combined in the same men : even our laboring classes 
have a competent knowledge of politics ; indeed, we are the only Greeks 
who regard a man who takes no interest in public affairs, not as one who 
only minds his own business, but as a man unfit for any business at all. If 
we, the people at large, can not originate measures of policy, we can, at any 
rate, judge of them when proposed : we do not think discussion a prejudice 
to action, but we do think it a prejudice not to be foretaught by discussion, 
before entering on the field of action. This leads me to mention another 
characteristic of ours — the combination of chivalrous daring with the most 
careful calculation of our plans : whereas, with the rest of the world, daring 
is but the offspring of ignorance, while reflection tends to hesitation. And 
surely the palm of magnanimity may well be awarded to those whom the 
liveliest appreciation of the hardships of war and the pleasures of peace fail 
to lure from the perilous path of honour to the charms of ease. Again, in 
point of beneficence and liberality, we act on principles different from those 
of the world at large ; we gain our friends not by receiving but by con- 
ferring benefits. Now benefactors are more constant in their friendship 
than those whom they oblige : they like to keep the sense of obligation 
alive by acting kindly to the recipients of their favors ; the friendship of 
the debtor, on the other hand, is clouded by the remembrance that his 
acknowledgment of the service will be the payment of a debt, not the be- 
stowal of a favor. We, too, are the only people who, without a particle of 
distrust, aid the distressed, from no sordid calculations of advantage, but in 
all the confidence of genuine liberality. 

" In one word, I declare that our capital at large is the school of Greece ; 
while, if we look to the citizens individually, I believe every man among us 
could prove himself personally qualified, without aid from others, to meet 
exigencies the most varied, with a versatility the most graceful. That this 



EULOGY OF THE ATHENIANS BY PERICLES. 555 

is no mere rhetorical vaunt of the moment, but the real truth, our political 
power, the offspring of our national character and the tastes I have de- 
scribed, is itself a sufficient proof. Of all existing states, Athens alone 
eclipses her prestige when tested by trial : she alone inspires no mortifica- 
tion in the invading foe, when he thinks by whom he is repulsed : no self- 
reproach in the subject for submitting to a degrading rule. So far from our 
supremacy needing attestation, it is written in the clearest characters : it will 
command the admiration of future ages, as it already does of our own ; we 
want no Homer to sing our praises, nor any other poet whose verses may 
charm for the moment, while history will mar the conception he raises of 
our deeds. No ! we shall be admired for having forced every sea and 
every shore to yield access to our courage, and for the imperishable monu- 
ments of the evils heaped on foes and the blessings conferred on friends, 
which we have, by common effort, reared on every soil. Such, then, is the 
state for which these men, determined not to be robbed of their country, 
bravely died on the battlefield : and every one of their survivors will be 
ready, I am sure, to suffer in the same cause. 

" I have dwelt at some length on our national advantages, partly from a 
wish to - convince you that we have a higher stake in the contest than those 
who can not rival those advantages, partly to enforce, by the palpable evi- 
dence of facts, the justice of the panegyric it is my commission to deliver 
over our fallen patriots. That commission, indeed, is nearly fulfilled : for if 
our country has been the theme of my encomium, it is because she has been 
graced by the virtues of those heroes and others who assembled them ; nor 
are there many among the Greeks whose reputation can be shown to be so 
evenly balanced by their actions. But I may still appeal to the closing scene 
of their lives, as either offering the first indication, or giving the crowning 
proof, of their manly worth. In the former case, men may fairly be allowed 
to veil their defects beneath the courage they have shown in their country's 
cause : they cancel evil by good : their public services outweigh the mischief 
of their private life. Yet among these men there was not one whom the 
prospect of a prolonged enjoyment of wealth lured to play the coward : not 
one whom the hope whispered by poverty, the hope of some day exchanging 
penury for affluence, tempted to quail before the hour of peril. Considering 
vengeance on their foes more precious than such prospects, they willingly, 
in what they thought the noblest of causes, risked their lives to make sure 
of their revenge, holding their chances of future enjoyment in reserve. They 
left hope to provide for the uncertainty of success : but when engaged in 
action, face to face with danger, they scorned to trust aught but themselves: 
and, on the field of battle, they chose to fall in resisting the enemy rather 
than save their lives by surrender. If, indeed, they fled, it was only from 
disgrace to their name : far from flying from the battlefield, they bore the 
brunt of the conflict with their bodies, and, in a moment, at the very crisis 
of victory, were carried away from a scene, not of terror, but of glory. 

" Such then were the principles of these men : principles worthy of their 
country. You, their surviving countrymen, may perhaps hope that your 
patriotism may be more compatible with personal safety, but you must dis- 
dain to harbor a spirit a whit less daring towards our enemies : looking not 
to the mere policy of so doing, with the eye of a rhetorician haranguing you, 
as familiar with the subject as himself, on the advantages to be reaped by a 
brave repulse of the foe : but looking to the practical side of the picture, the 
palpable proofs, daily revealed, of our political greatness — which may well 



556 THUCYDIDES. 

inspire you with a lover's enthusiasm for your country. And when you are 
impressed with its greatness, remember that it was gained by brave men, by 
men who were shrewd in counsel, and, in action, sensibly alive to honor : 
and who, if ever foiled in an attack, never thought of saving themselves, but 
paid their country the full tribute of their valor, nobly lavishing their lives 
as a joint-offering to her. Yes, they jointly offered their lives, and were 
repaid, individually, by that glory that can never die, and by the most 
honorable of tombs, not that wherein they lie, but that wherein their fame 
is treasured in everlasting honor, refreshed by every incident, either of 
action or debate, that stirs its remembrance. For the whole world is the 
tomb of illustrious men : it is not the mere monumental inscription in their 
native land that records their valor : no ! even in climes that knew them 
not, an unwritten memorial of them finds a home, not in monuments, but in 
the'hearts of the brave. Emulate, then, their heroic deeds : and, believing 
happiness to depend on freedom, and freedom on valor, shrink not, to your 
own prejudice, from the perils of war : for it is not men of broken fortunes, 
men hopeless of prosperity, of whom we can so fairly expect a generous 
prodigality of life, as of those who still risk the change from wealth to 
poverty, and who have most at stake in the event of a reverse. And surely 
disaster, coupled with the stigma of cowardice, is far more grievous to a 
man of high spirit, than the sudden and painless death that surprises the 
soldier in the bloom of his strength and patriotic hope. 

" For these reasons, I have to offer consolation rather than condolence to 
those among the parents of the dead, who are now present. They know 
that their lot from childhood has been chequered with calamity ; and that 
those may be called fortunate, whose fate, whether in affliction, as theirs, or 
in death, as their relatives, has been most brilliant : and whose term of life 
has not been prolonged beyond the term of their happiness. Still, I feel 
how difficult it is to console you : for the successes of others — successes in 
which you, too, used to rejoice — will constantly remind you of those whom 
you have lost ; and grief is naturally felt not for blessings of which a man 
is robbed before he can appreciate them, but for those which he loses after 
long habituation to them. Those, however, among you, whose age allows 
them offspring, must comfort themselves with the hope of children yet to 
come. In private life they will lull their parents into forgetfulness of those 
who are no more, and our country will reap a twofold advantage : she will 
not suffer from depopulation, and she will be more secure : for it is impos- 
sible to expect fair and just legislation from men who do not share their 
neighbors' risks by having children as well as property at stake. Those, 
on the other hand, who are past their prime, must consider the longer period 
of their life during which they have been fortunate, as clear gain : the 
remainder they must expect, will be short : and they ought to cheer them- 
selves with the fame of their heroic sons. For the love of honors is the 
only sentiment that is always young : and when men are past the age of 
heroic service, it is not gain, as cynics say, but rather respect, which 
pleases them. 

" As for you, the children or brothers of the fallen, you will, I am sure, find 
the task of emulation difficult. Every one is ready to praise those who are 
no more : and, even with extraordinary merit, you will find it hard to be 
pronounced, I will not say equal, but only slightly inferior to them : for 
envy will attack a rival's fame, while life remains : and it is only when com- 
petition is barred by death that affection will applaud without alloy. Per- 



SPEECH ASCRIBED TO PERICLES BY THUCYDIDES. 557 

haps, in deference to those among you who have been plunged into widow- 
hood, I ought to say a word on woman's excellence. A brief recommenda- 
tion will suffice : it is your glory not to overstep the modesty of nature, and 
to be in the least possible degree the subject of discussion, either for praise 
or blame, among men. 

" Honors may be rendered both in words and acts. As to the former, the 
tribute has been paid in the address which I, like my predecessors, have 
delivered, according to the law, to the best of my ability : as to the latter, 
this public funeral has tendered to our patriots a portion of the honor due 
to them, and the rest their country will pay, by rearing their children at the 
public expense from this day till they are of age : thus presenting, in a spirit 
of the soundest policy, to our fallen countrymen and their survivors, an 
honorable reward for their courage in the battle-field. In a spirit of policy, 
I say : for the states that institute the highest prizes for valor have the 
bravest men for citizens. And now, having concluded the mourning rites 
due to your several relations, you may go home." 

Of course the question arises here, as elsewhere, how closely 
Thucydides has preserved the actual words that the great orator 
uttered, to which no absolutely certain answer can be given, yet when 
we remember the importance and interest of this address, it seems 
likely that very much of it would live in the memory of those who 
heard it, and that this is of the nature of a true report. A few of the 
words of Pericles have come down to us, that attest the picturesque 
vividness of his language. Such, for example, is the sentence which 
Aristotle quotes in his work on Rhetoric from this very speech, that 
in the slain youth of Athens the year had lost its spring, but the 
sentence is not given by Thucydides. Of the other fragments there 
is this which Plutarch quotes from his encomium on those who fell at 
Samos, wherein he said that they had become immortal, like the gods : 
" for we do not see them themselves, but only, by the honors we pay 
them and by the benefits they do us, attribute to them immortality ; 
and the like attributes belong also to those that die in the service of 
their country." Plutarch also characterizes Pericles with a certain touch 
of sarcasm as filled with " lofty, and, as they call it, up-in-the-air sort of 
thought, whence he derived not merely, as was natural, elevation of 
purpose and dignity of language, raised far above the base and dis- 
honest buffooneries of mob-eloquence, but, besides this, a composure 
of countenance, and a serenity and calmness in all his movements, 
which no occurrence while he was speaking could disturb, a sustained 
and even tone of voice, and various other advantages of a similar kind, 
which produced the greatest effect on his hearers." 

While this oration which is placed in the mouth of Pericles 
presents the Athenian side, that of the Spartans is unfolded in the 
earlier speech of Archidamus, King of Sparta, which runs as follows : 

" I have already, Lacedaemonians, been personally engaged in several wars, 



5 5 8 THUC YD IDE S. 

and I know that those of my own age among you are also conversant with 
warfare, so that you are not likely to long for hostilities, like the mass of 
men, either through inexperience, or from a belief that they are in them- 
selves desirable and safe. 

You would find, too, that this war, the subject of our present deliberations, 
is not likely to be one of trifling moment, were any of you dispassionately to 
weigh the nature of the struggle. Our forces, indeed, when directed against 
Peloponnesian communities, especially those in our neighborhood, are 
similar to, and a match for theirs, and we can attack them rapidly in detail. 
But — a struggle with men who are rich in foreign dominion, who are 
thorough masters of the sea, and have long been admirably provided with 
all the appliances of war, with wealth, both national and private, with ships, 
with cavalry, with troops, heavy and light, in greater numbers than any 
which elsewhere exist in any 07ie district of Greece : and who, besides all 
this, have a host of confederates who pay them tribute — how can it be 
politic rashly to engage in such a struggle, and in what can we trust when 
we attack them unprepared ? Are we to trust in our fleet ! No ! we are 
inferior therein, and it will take time to practise and prepare a counter 
armament. Shall we rely, then, on our wealth ? Scarcely ! for in this point 
we are far more deficient still : we have no money in our treasury, nor do 
we readily contribute from our private resources. 

" Perhaps, however, some of you may feel sanguine on the ground that we 
surpass them in our heavy infantry, and in the number of our troops, which 
would enable us to ravage, their land by repeated incursions. But then there 
are considerable domains, besides Attica, which own their sway, and their 
command of the sea will enable them to import whatever they require. If, 
on the other hand, we were to try to seduce their confederates, we must find 
ships for their special protection, as they are for the most part islanders. 
What then will be the character of the war we shall be waging ? Unless we 
can either sweep the seas with our fleet, or cut off the supplies that feed 
the Athenian marine, ours will on the whole be a losing game ; and in such 
a case we can no longer with honour even negotiate for peace, especially 
should we appear to have provoked the strife. God forbid that we should 
encourage ourselves with the utterly delusive hope that the war will speedily 
be terminated if we devastate their land ! I rather fear we shall even be- 
queath it to our children ; so improbable is it that Athenian spirit will chain 
itself to the soil it tenants, or suffer Athenians, like men who have never 
been in arms, to quail before the terrors of war. 

" Not, however, that I advise you tamely to allow them to injure our allies, 
and to refrain from exposing their intrigues. But I do advise you not as yet 
to draw the sword, but to send an embassy and to expostulate, without either 
too plainly menacing war, or allowing them to think we shall be blind to 
their ambition. In the interval I recommend you to complete our own 
preparations, by the acquisition of allies, both in Greece and abroad, in any 
quarter where we can gain either naval or pecuniary aid ; for men who, like 
ourselves, are the intended victims of Athenian treachery, cannot be blamed 
for consulting their safety by foreign as well as Greek alliances. Let us, at 
the same time, develope to the utmost our internal resources : should they 
then show any inclination to listen to our embassies, all the better ; if they 
refuse, after the lapse of two or three years, we shall be better prepared to 
attack them, should we resolve to do so. Perhaps, too, by that time, when 
they observe our armaments, and the warlike tone of our diplomacy, they 



SPEECH OF THE SPARTAN ARCHIDAMUS. 559 

may be more disposed toward concession, while their territory is still invio- 
late, and they are able to enjoy, in their full integrity, those great national 
advantages whose fate depends on their deliberations. Indeed, the only 
light in which you should regard their domain is that of a hostage ; a hos- 
tage the more precious, the richer its cultivation. It is, therefore, your 
interest to spare it as long as possible, instead of rendering its proprietors, 
by reducing them to desperation, more than ever intractable to terms. If 
we take the opposite course ; if, hurried on by the complaints of our con- 
federates, we ravage Attica without adequate supplies, beware that we are 
not adopting a course little to the honor of Peloponnese, and full of embar- 
rassment. The grievances, indeed, whether of states or of individuals, it is 
possible to adjust ; but it is not easy for a whole confederacy to terminate 
hostilities on creditable terms, when its members have, each for his own 
interest, engaged in a war whose issue it is impossible to foresee. 

" Nor let it be supposed that delay on the part of a numerous confederacy 
to attack a single state is a mark of pusillanimity. Athens, like ourselves, 
has allies — allies as numerous as ours : they pay her tribute, and the con- 
test hinges not so much on arms as on treasure, the sinews of war, especially 
when, as in the present case, an island is opposed to a maritime power. Let 
us first, then, fill our treasury, instead of being carried away by the elo- 
quence of our allies ; let us, who will be mainly responsible for the results, 
whether fortunate or adverse, leisurely revolve beforehand the chances of 
success or defeat. 

"I must warn you, too, not to feel ashamed of that slow and deliberate cir- 
cumspection which is their principal reproach against us ; for if you hastily 
take up arms, it will be all the later before you lay them down, because you 
will be entering on the conflict without due deliberation. The wisdom of 
our cautious policy reflects itself in our long career of freedom and glory ; 
and the very quality they ridicule in us is only another name for a wise 
moderation ; a quality which secures us a singular exemption from insolent 
elation in the hour of triumph, and, compared with others, from despondency 
in disaster ; from yielding to the fascinations of a gratified vanity, when people 
praise us and cheer us on to hazards which our sober judgment disapproves; 
or from being piqued into compliance when a Corinthian speaker goads us 
with invective. Our love of order and discipline renders us brave soldiers 
and wise counsellors ; brave soldiers, because sensibility to shame is a power- 
ful element in the love of order, and a chivalrous spirit in sensibility to 
shame ; wise counsellors, because we are trained with too little refinement 
to despise the laws, and with too severe a self-control to disobey them. 
Nor are we so overskilled in useless accomplishments as to depreciate our 
enemies' armaments in plausible speeches, without any corresponding en- 
ergy in action. No ! our education teaches us to believe that, in point of 
tactics, our neighbors are nearly on a par with ourselves, and that the 
chances incident to war are far beyond the calculations of debate. We 
arm energetically against the foe on the presumption that his plans will be 
wisely laid ; for we have no right to build our hopes on the chance of his 
mistakes, but on the surer ground of our own foresight. We do not believe 
in any great natural superiority in one man over another : that man we hold 
the most valuable citizen who has been trained in the severest school. 

" Let us not, then, renounce the principles bequeathed by our fathers to us, 
and retained by us down to the present moment with uniform advantage ; 
let us not, in the brief space of an hour, pass a hurried resolution, when the 



560 THUCYDIDES. 

lives of many citizens, the fortunes of many families, the fate of many cities. 
and our own glory are involved ; let us take time to consider, as our 
strength permits us to do more easily than other states. Despatch an em- 
bassy to treat on the affairs of Potidaea, and on the alleged wrongs of the 
allies, especially as Athens is willing to submit the subjects of complaint to 
arbitration ; for public justice forbids your proceeding, previous to trial, 
against a party willing to accept such a decision, as against an avowed crim- 
inal. At the same time make every preparation for war. This will be the 
safest course you can adopt, and the most likely to intimidate your foes." 

IV. 

Undoubtedly, the most tragical part of the whole book is the 
account of the ill-fated Sicilian expedition, from which the following 
extracts are taken. The reader will notice the grim, dispassionate 
spirit of the historian, who is as impartial as nature itself. Thucydides, 
whose heart must have been wrung as he wrote down this merciless 
chronicle of error and misfortune, preserves his statue-like calm 
throughout, letting the facts speak for themselves, and suppressing, 
with a dignity that really rises to sublimity, all personal comment. 
He was a true representative of the greatest grandeur of Greece. His 
majestic spirit shines through the thick veil of obscurity that clouds 
his expression. 

When Gylippus and the other Syracusan generals had, like Nicias, 
encouraged their troops, perceiving the Athenians to be manning their 
ships, they presently did the same. Nicias, overwhelmed by the situation, 
and seeing how great and how near the peril was (for the ships were on the 
very point of rowing out), feeling too, as men do on the eve of a great 
struggle, that all which he had done was nothing, and that he had not said 
half enough, again addressed the trierarchs, and calling each of them by his 
father's name, and his own name, and the name of his tribe, he entreated 
those who had made any reputation for themselves not to be false to it, and 
those whose ancestors were eminent not to tarnish their hereditary fame. 
He reminded them that they were the inhabitants of the freest country in 
the world, and how in Athens there was no interference with the daily life 
of any man. He spoke to them of their wives and children and their fathers' 
Gods, as men will at such a time ; for then they do not care whether their 
common-place phrases seem to be out of date or not, but loudly reiterate 
the old appeals, believing that they may be of some service at the awful 
moment. When he thought that he had exhorted them, not enough, but as 
much as the scanty time allowed, he retired, and led the land-forces to the 
shore, extending the line as far as he could, so that they might be of the 
greatest use in encouraging the combatants on board ship. Demosthenes, 
Menander, and Euthydemus, who had gone on board the Athenian fleet to 
take the command, now quitted their own station, and proceeded straight to 
the closed mouth of the harbour, intending to force their way to the open 
sea where a passage was still left. 

The Syracusans and their allies had already put out with nearly the same 
number of ships as before. A detachment of them guarded the entrance 



THE SICILIAN EXPEDITION. 561 

of the harbour ; the remainder were disposed all around it in such a manner 
that they might fall on the Athenians from every side at once, and that their 
land-forces might at the same time be able to co-operate wherever the ships 
retreated to the shore. Sicanus and Agatharchus commanded the Syracusan 
fleet, each of them a wing ; Pythen and the Corinthians occupied the centre. 
When the Athenians approached the closed mouth of the harbour the violence 
of their onset overpowered the ships which were stationed there ; they then 
attempted to loosen the fastenings. Whereupon from all sides the Syra- 
cusans and their allies came bearing down upon them, and the -conflict was 
no longer confined to the entrance, but extended throughout the harbour. 
No previous engagement had been so fierce and obstinate. Great was the 
eagerness with which the rowers on both sides rushed upon their enemies 
whenever the word of command was given ; and keen was the contest 
between the pilots as they manoeuvred one against another. The marines 
too were full of anxiety that, when ship struck ship, the service on deck 
should not fall short of the rest ; every one in the place assigned to him was 
eager to be foremost among his fellows. Many vessels meeting — and never 
did so many fight in so small a space, for the two fleets together amounted 
to nearly two hundred — they were seldom able to strike in the regular 
manner, because they had no opportunity of first retiring or breaking the 
line ; they generally fouled one another as ship dashed against ship in the 
hurry of flight or pursuit. All the time that another vessel was bearing 
down, the men on deck poured showers of javelins and arrows and stones 
upon the enemy ; and when the two closed, the marines fought hand to 
hand, and endeavoured to board. In many places, owing to the want of 
room, they who had struck another found that they were struck them- 
selves ; often two or even more vessels were unavoidably entangled about 
one, and the pilots had to make plans of attack and defence, not against one 
adversary only, but against several coming from different sides. The crash 
of so many ships dashing against one another took away the wits of the 
sailors, and made it impossible to hear the boatswains, whose voices in both 
fleets rose high, as they gave directions to the rowers, or cheered them on 
in the excitement of the struggle. On the Athenian side they were shouting 
to their men that they must force a passage and seize the opportunity now 
or never of returning in safety to their native land. To the Syracusans and 
their' allies was represented the glory of preventing the escape of their 
enemies, and of a victory by which every man would exalt the honour of his 
own city. The commanders too, when they saw any ship backing water 
without necessity, would call the captain by his name, and ask, of the 
Athenians, whether they were retreating because they expected to be more 
at home upon the land of their bitterest foes than upon that sea which had 
been their own so long ; on the Syracusan side, whether, when they knew 
perfectly well that the Athenians were only eager to find some means of 
flight, they would themselves fly from the fugitives. 

While the naval engagement hung in the balance the two armies on shore 
had great trial and conflict of soul. The Sicilian soldier was animated by 
the hope of increasing the glory which he had already won, while the invader 
was tormented by the fear that his fortunes might sink lower still. The last 
chance of the Athenians lay in their ships, and their anxiety was dreadful. 
The fortune of the battle varied ; and it was not possible that the spectators 
on the shore should all receive the same impression of it. Being quite 
close and having different points of view, they would some of them see their 



562 THUCYDIDES. 

own ships victorious ; their courage would then revive, and they would 
earnestly call upon the Gods not to take from them their hope of deliverance. 

But others, who saw .their ships worsted, cried and shrieked aloud, and 
were by the sight alone more utterly unnerved than the defeated combatants 
themselves. Others again, who had fixed their gaze on some part of the 
struggle which was undecided, were in a state of excitement still more 
terrible ; they kept swaying their bodies to and fro in an agony of hope and 
fear as the stubborn conflict went on and on ; for at every instant they were 
all but saved or all but lost. And while the strife hung in the balance you 
might hear in the Athenian army at once lamentation, shouting, cries of 
victory or defeat, and all the various sounds which are wrung from a great 
host in extremity of danger. Not less agonising were the feelings of those 
on board. At length the Syracusans and their allies, after a protracted 
struggle, put the Athenians to flight, and triumphantly bearing down upon 
them, and encouraging one another with loud cries and exhortations, drove 
them to land. Then that part of the navy which had not been taken in the 
deep water fell back in confusion to the shore, and the crews rushed out of 
the ships into the camp. And the land-forces, no longer now divided in 
feeling, but uttering one universal groan of intolerable anguish, ran, some 
of them to save the ships, others to defend what remained of the wall ; but 
the greater number began to look to themselves and to their own safety. 
Never had there been a greater panic in an Athenian army than at that 
moment. They now suffered what they had done to others at Pylos. For 
at Pylos the Lacedaemonians, when they saw their ships destroyed, knew that 
their friends who had crossed over into the island of Sphacteria were lost 
with them. And so now the Athenians after the rout of their fleet, knew 
that they had no hope of saving themselves by land unless events took some 
extraordinary turn. 

Thus, after a fierce battle and a great destruction of ships and men on 
both sides, the Syracusans and their allies gained the victory. They gathered 
up the wrecks and bodies of the dead, and sailing back to the city, erected 
a trophy. The Athenians, overwhelmed by their misery, never so much as 
thought of recovering their wrecks or of asking leave to collect their dead. 
Their intention was to retreat that very night. Demosthenes came to Nicias 
and proposed that they should once more man their remaining vessels and 
endeavour to force the passage at daybreak, saying that they had more ships 
fit for service than the enemy. For the Athenian fleet still numbered sixty, 
but the enemy had less than fifty. Nicias approved of his proposal, and 
they would have manned the ships, but the sailors refused to embark ; for 
they were paralysed by their defeat, and had no longer any hope of suc- 
ceeding. So the Athenians all made up their minds to escape by land. 

Hermocrates the Syracusan suspected their intention, and dreading what 
might happen if their vast army, retreating by land and settling somewhere 
in Sicily, should choose to renew the war, he went to the authorities, and 
represented to them that they ought not to allow the Athenians to withdraw 
by night (mentioning his own suspicion of their intentions), but that all the 
Syracusans and their allies should march out before them, wall up the roads, 
and occupy the passes with a guard. They thought very much as he did, 
and wanted to carry out his plan, but doubted whether their men, who were 
too glad to repose after a great battle, and in time of festival — for there 
happened on that very day to be a sacrifice to Heracles — could be induced 
to obey. Most of them, in the exultation of victory, were drinking and 



5 6 4 THUC YD IDES. 

keeping holiday, and at such a time how could they ever be expected to take 
up arms and go forth at the order of the generals ? On these grounds the 
authorities decided that the thing was impossible. Whereupon Hermocrates 
himself, fearing lest the Athenians should gain a start and quietly pass the 
most difficult places in the night, contrived the following plan : when it was 
growing dark he sent certain of his own acquaintances, accompanied by a 
few horsemen, to the Athenian camp. They rode up within earshot, and 
pretending to be friends (there were known to be men in the city who gave 
information to Nicias of what went on) called to some of the soldiers, and 
bade them tell him not to withdraw his army during the night, for the 
Syracusans were guarding the roads ; he should make preparation at leisure 
and retire by day. Having delivered their message they departed, and 
those who heard them informed the Athenian generals. 

On receiving this message, which they supposed to be genuine, they 
remained during the night. And having once given up the intention of 
starting immediately, they decided to remain during the next day, that the 
soldiers might, as well as they could, put together their baggage in the most 
convenient form, and depart, taking with them the bare necessaries of life, 
but nothing else. 

Meanwhile the Syracusans and Gylippus, going forth before them with 
their land-forces, blocked the roads in the country by which the Athenians 
were likely to pass, guarded the fords of the rivers and streams, and posted 
themselves at the best points for receiving and stopping them. Their sailors 
rowed up to the beach and dragged away the Athenian ships. The Athenians 
themselves burnt a few of them, as they had intended, but the rest the Syra- 
cusans towed away, unmolested and at their leisure, from the places where 
they had severally run aground, and conveyed them to the city. 

" On the third day after the sea-fight, when Nicias and Demosthenes 
thought that their preparations were complete, the army began to move. 
They were in a dreadful condition ; not only was there the great fact that 
they had lost their whole fleet, and instead of their expected triumph had 
brought the utmost peril upon Athens as well as upon themselves, but 
also the sights which presented themselves as they quitted the camp 
were painful to every eye and mind. The dead were unburied, and 
when any one saw the body of a friend lying on the ground he 
was smitten with sorrow and dread, while the sick or wounded who still 
survived but had to be left, were even a greater trial to the living, and more 
to be pitied than those who were gone. Their prayers and lamentations 
drove their companions to distraction ; they would beg that they might be 
taken with them, and call by name any friend or relation whom they saw 
passing ; they would hang upon their departing comrades and follow as far 
as they could, and when their limbs and strength failed them and they 
dropped behind, many were the imprecations and cries which they uttered. 
So that the whole army was in tears, and such was their despair that they 
could hardly make up their minds to stir, although they were leaving an 
enemy's country, having suffered calamities too great for tears already, and 
dreading miseries yet greater in the unknown future. There was also a 
general feeling of shame and self-reproach, — indeed they seemed, not like 
an army, but like the fugitive population of a city captured after a siege ; 
and of a great city too. For the whole multitude who were marching 
together numbered not less than forty thousand. Each of them took with 
him anything he could carry which was likely to be of use. Even the 



THE SICILIAN EXPEDITION. 565 

heavy-armed and cavalry, contrary to their practice when under arms, con- 
veyed about their persons their own food, some because they had no 
attendants, others because they could not trust them ; for they had long 
been deserting, and most of them had gone off all at once. Nor was the 
food which they carried sufficient ; for the supplies of the camp had failed. 
Their disgrace and the universality of the misery, although there might be 
some consolation in the very community of suffering, was nevertheless at 
that moment hard to bear, especially when they remembered from what pomp 
and splendour they had fallen into their present low estate. Never had an 
Hellenic army experienced such a reverse. They had come intending to 
enslave others, and they were going away in fear that they would be them- 
selves enslaved. Instead of the prayers and hymns with which they had 
put to sea, they were now departing amid appeals to heaven of another sort. 
They were no longer sailors but landsmen, depending, not upon their fleet, 
but upon their infantry. Yet in face of the great danger which still 
threatened them all these things appeared endurable. 

Nicias, seeing the army disheartened at their terrible fall, went along the 
ranks and encouraged and consoled them as well as he could. In his fervour 
he raised his voice as he passed from one to another and spoke louder and 
louder, desiring that the benefit of his words might reach as far as possible. 

" Even now, Athenians and allies, we must hope : men have been 
delivered out of worse straits than these, and I would not have you judge 
yourselves too severely on account either of the reverses which you have 
sustained or of your present undeserved miseries. I too am as weak as any 
of you ; for I am quite prostrated by my disease as you see. And although 
there was a time when I might have been thought equal to the best of you 
in the happiness of my private and public life, I am now in as great danger 
and as much at the mercy of fortune as the meanest. Yet my days have 
been passed in the performance of many a religious duty, and of many a just 
and blameless action. Therefore my hope of the future remains unshaken, 
and our calamities do not appal me as they might. Who knows that they 
may not be lightened ? For our enemies have had their full share of success, 
and if our expedition provoked the jealousy of any god, by this time we 
have been punished enough. Others ere now have attacked their neighbours ; 
they have done as men will do, and suffered what men can bear. We may 
therefore begin to hope that the gods will be more merciful to us ; for we 
now invite their pity rather than their jealousy. And look at your own well- 
armed ranks ; see how many brave soldiers you are, marching in solid array, 
and do not be dismayed ; bear in mind that wherever you plant yourselves 
you are a city already, and that no city of Sicily will find it easy to resist 
your attack, or can dislodge you if you choose to settle. Provide for the 
safety and good order of your own march, and remember every one of you 
that on whatever spot a man is compelled to fight, there if he conquer he 
may find a home and a fortress. 

" We must press forward day and night, for our supplies are but scanty. 
The Sicels through fear of the Syracusans still adhere to us, and if we can 
only reach any part of their territory we shall be among friends, and you 
may consider yourselves secure. We have sent to them, and they have been 
told to meet us and bring food. In a word, soldiers, let me tell you that 
you must be brave ; there is no place near to which a coward can fly. And 
if you now escape your enemies, those of you who are not Athenians may 
see once more the home for which they long, while you Athenians will 



5 66 



THUCYDIDES. 



again rear aloft the fallen greatness of Athens 
ships in which are no men, constitute a state." 

Thus 



For men, and not walls or 




GREEK HOPLIT. 



which they might carry with them, 
miles in the country which lay before 
them. Meanwhile the Syracusans had 
gone on before them, and at a point 
where the road ascends a steep hill 
called the Acraean height, and there 
is a precipitous ravine on either side, 
were blocking up the pass by a wall. 
On the next day the Athenians ad- 
vanced, although again impeded by 
the numbers of the enemy's cavalry 
who rode alongside, and of their 
javelin-men who threw darts at them. 
For a long time the Athenians maintained 



exhorting his troops 
Nicias passed through the army, 
and wherever he saw gaps in the 
ranks or the men dropping out 
of line, he brought them back to 
their proper place. Demosthenes 
did the same for the troops under 
his command, and gave them 
similar exhortations. The army 
marched disposed in a hollow 
oblong : the division of Nicias 
leading, and that of Demosthe- 
nes following ; the hoplites en- 
closed within their ranks, the 
baggage-bearers and the rest of 
the army. When they arrived at 
the ford of the river Anapus 
they found a force of the Syracu- 
sans and of their allies drawn 
up to meet them ; these they put 
to flight, and, getting command 
of the ford, proceeded on their 
march. The Syracusans con- 
tinually harassed them, the cav- 
alry riding alongside, and the 
light-armed troops hurling darts 
at them. On this day the Athen- 
ians proceeded about four-and- 
a-half miles and encamped at a 
hill. On the next day they started 
early, and, having advanced more 
than two miles, descended into 
a level plain, and encamped. The 
country was inhabited, and they 
were desirous of obtaining food 
from the houses, and also water 
as there was little to be had for many 




COIN WITH MOUNTED SPEARMAN. 



the struggle, 



but at last retired 



THE SICILIAN EXPEDITION. 



5 6 7 




STORMING A WALL. 



to their own encampment. Their supplies were now cut off, because the 
horsemen circumscribed their movements. 

In the morning they started early and resumed their march. They 
pressed onwards to the hill where the way was barred, and found in front of 
them the Syracusan infantry drawn up to defend the wall, in deep array, for 
the pass was narrow. Whereupon the Athenians advanced and assaulted 
the barrier, but the enemy, who were numerous and had the advantage of 
position, threw missiles upon them from the hill, which was steep, and so, 
not being able to force their way, 
they again retired and rested. Dur- 
ing the conflict, as is often the case 
in the fall of the year, there came a 
storm of rain and thunder, whereby 
the Athenians were yet more dis- 
heartened, for they thought that 
everything was conspiring to their 
destruction. While they were resting 
Gylippus and the Syracusans de- 
spatched a division of their army to 
raise a wall behind them across the 
road by which they had come ; but 
the Athenians sent some of their own 
troops and frustrated their inten- 
tion. They then retired with their whole army in the direction of the 
plain and passed the night. On the following day they again advanced. 
The Syracusans now surrounded and attacked them on every side, and 
wounded many of them. If the Athenians advanced they retreated, but 
charged them when they retired, falling especially upon the hindermost of 
them, in the hope that, if they could put to flight a few at a time, they might 
strike a panic into the whole army. In this fashion the Athenians strug- 
gled on for a long time, and having advanced about three-quarters of a mile 
rested in the plain. The Syracusans then left them and returned to their 
own encampment. 

The army was now in a miserable plight, being in want of every neces- 
sary ; and by the continual assaults of the enemy great numbers of the 
soldiers had been wounded. Nicias and Demosthenes, perceiving their con- 
dition, resolved during the night to light as many watch-fires as possible 
and to lead off their forces. They intended to take another route and march 
towards the sea in the direction opposite to that from which the Syracusans 
were watching them. Now their whole line of march lay, not towards Catana, 
but towards the other side of Sicily, in the direction of Camarina and Gela, 
and the cities, Hellenic or Barbarian, of that region. So they lighted 
numerous fires and departed in the night. And then, as constantly happens 
in armies, especially in very great ones, and as might be expected when they 
were marching by night in an enemy's country, and with the enemy from 
whom they were flying not far off, there arose a panic among them, and they 
fell into confusion. The army of Nicias, which led the way, kept together, 
and was considerably in advance, but that of Demosthenes, which was the 
larger half, got severed from the other division, and marched in less order. 
At daybreak they succeeded in reaching the sea, and striking into the 
Helorine road marched along it, intending as soon as they arrived at the 
river Cacyparis to follow up the stream through the interior of the island. 



568 THUC YD IDE S. 

They were expecting that the Sicels for whom they had sent would meet 
them on this road. When they had reached the river they found there also 
a guard of the Syracusans cutting off the passage by a wall and palisade. 
They forced their way through, and, crossing the river, passed on towards 
another river which is called the Erineus, this being the direction in which 
their guides led them. 

When daylight broke and the Syracusans and their allies saw that the 
Athenians had departed, most of them thought that Gylippus had let them go 
on purpose, and were very angry with him. They easily found the line of their 
retreat, and quickly following, came up with them about the time of the mid- 
day meal. The troops of Demosthenes were last ; they were marching slowly 
and in disorder, not having recovered from the panic of the previous night, 
when they were overtaken by the Syracusans, who immediately fell upon them 
and fought. Separated as they were from the others, they were easily hemmed 
in by the Syracusan cavalry and driven into a narrow space. The division 
of Nicias was as much as six miles in advance, for he marched faster, thinking 
that their safety depended at such a time, not in remaining and fighting, if 
they could avoid it, but in retreating as quickly as they could, and resisting 
only when they were positively compelled. Demosthenes, on the other 
hand, who had been more incessantly harassed throughout the retreat, 
because marching last he was first attacked by the enemy, now, when he 
saw the Syracusans pursuing him, instead of pressing onward, had ranged 
his army in order of battle. Thus lingering he was surrounded, and he and 
the Athenians under his command were in the greatest danger and con- 
fusion. For they were crushed into a walled enclosure, having a road on 
both sides and planted thickly with olive-trees, and missiles were hurled at 
them from all points. The Syracusans naturally preferred this mode of 
attack to a regular engagement. For to risk themselves against desperate 
men would have been only playing into the hands of the Athenians. More- 
over, every one was sparing of his life ; their good fortune was already 
assured, and they did not want to fall in the hour of victory. Even by this 
irregular mode of fighting they thought that they could overpower and cap- 
ture the Athenians. 

And so when they had gone on all day assailing them with missiles 
from every quarter, and saw that they were quite worn out with 
their wounds and all their other sufferings, Gylippus and the Syracusans 
made a proclamation, first of all to the islanders, that any of them who 
pleased might come over to them and have their freedom. But only a few 
cities accepted the offer. At length an agreement was made for the entire 
force under Demosthenes. Their arms were to be surrendered, but no one 
was to suffer death, either from violence or from imprisonment, or from 
want of the bare means of life. So they all surrendered, being in number 
six thousand, and gave up what money they had. This they threw into the 
hollows of shields, and filled four. The captives were at once taken to the 
city. On the same day Nicias and his division reached the river Erineus, 
which he crossed, and halted his army on a rising ground. 

" On the following day he was overtaken by the Syracusans, who told him 
that Demosthenes had surrendered, and bade him do the same. He, not 
believing them, procured a truce while he sent a horseman to go and see. 
Upon the return of the horseman bringing assurance of the fact, he sent a 
herald to Gylippus and the Syracusans, saying that he would agree, on 
behalf of the Athenian state, to pay the expenses which the Syracusans had 



THE SICILIAN EXPEDITION. 569 

incurred in the war, on condition that they should let his army go ; until the 
money was paid he would give Athenian citizens as hostages, a man for a 
talent. Gylippus and the Syracusans would not accept these proposals, but 
attacked and surrounded this division of the army aS well as the other, and 
hurled missiles at them from every side until the evening. They too were 
grievously in want of food and necessaries. Nevertheless they meant to 
wait for the dead of the night and then to proceed. They were just resuming 
their arms, when the Syracusans discovered them and raised the Paean. 
The Athenians, perceiving that they were detected, laid down their arms 
again, with the exception of about three hundred men who broke through 
the enemy's guard and made their escape in the darkness as best they could. 

"When the day dawned Nicias led forward his army, and the Syracusans 
and the allies again assailed them on every side, hurling javelins and other 
missiles at them. The Athenians hurried on to the river Assinarus. They 
hoped to gain a little relief if they forded the river, for the mass of horsemen 
and other troops overwhelmed and crushed them ; and they were worn out 
by fatigue and thirst. But no sooner did they reach the water than they lost 
all order and rushed in ; every man was trying to cross first, and, the 
enemy pressing upon them at the same time, the passage of the river became 
hopeless. Being compelled to keep close together they fell one upon 
another, and trampled each other under foot : some at once perished, 
pierced by their own spears ; others got entangled in the baggage and were 
carried down the stream. The Syracusans stood upon the further bank of 
the river, which was steep, and hurled missiles from above on the Athenians, 
who were huddled together in the deep bed of the stream and for the most 
part were drinking greedily. The Peloponnesians came down the bank and 
slaughtered them, falling chiefly upon those who were in the river. Where- 
upon the water at once became foul, but was drunk all the same, although 
muddy and dyed with blood, and the crowd fought for it. 

" At last, when the dead bodies were lying in heaps upon one another in 
the water, and the army was utterly undone, some perishing in the river, and 
any who escaped being cut off by the cavalry, Nicias surrendered to Gylippus, 
in whom he had more confidence than in the Syracusans. He entreated him 
and the Lacedaemonians to do what they pleased with himself, but not to go 
on killing the men. So Gylippus gave the word to make prisoners. There- 
upon the survivors, not including however a large number whom the soldiers 
concealed, were brought in alive. As for the three hundred who had broken 
through the guard in the night, the Syracusans sent in pursuit and seized 
them. The total of the public prisoners when collected was not great ; for 
many were appropriated by the soldiers, and the whole of Sicily was full of 
them, they not having capitulated like the troops under Demosthenes. A 
large number also perished ; the slaughter at the river being very great, 
quite as great as any which took place in the Sicilian war ; and not a few 
had fallen in the frequent attacks which were made upon the Athenians 
during their march. Still many escaped, some at the time, others ran away 
after an interval of slavery, and all these found refuge at Catana. 

" The Syracusans and their allies collected their forces and returned with 
the spoil, and as many prisoners as they could take with them, into the city. 
The captive Athenians and allies they deposited in the quarries, which they 
thought would be the safest place of confinement. Nicias and Demosthenes 
they put to the sword, although against the will of Gylippus. For Gylippus 
thought that to carry home with him to Lacedaemon the generals of the 



57° THUCYDIDES. 

enemy, over and above all his other successes, would be a brilliant triumph. 
One of them, Demosthenes, happened to be the greatest foe, and the other 
the greatest friend of the Lacedaemonians, both in the same matter of Pylos 
and Sphacteria. For Nicias had taken up their cause, and had persuaded 
the Athenians to make the peace which set at liberty the prisoners taken in 
the island. The Lacedaemonians were grateful to him for the service, and 
this was the main reason why he trusted Gylippus and surrendered himself 
to him. But certain Syracusans, who had been in communication with him, 
were afraid (such was the report) that on some suspicion of their guilt he 
might be put to the torture and bring trouble on them in the hour of their 
prosperity. Others and especially the Corinthians, feared that, being rich, 
he might by bribery escape and do them further mischief. So the Syra- 
cusans gained the consent of the allies and had him executed. For these or 
the like reasons he suffered death. No one of the Hellenes in my time was 
less deserving of so miserable an end ; for he lived in the practice of every 
virtue. Those who were imprisoned in the quarries were at the beginning 
of their captivity harshly treated by the Syracusans. There were great 
numbers of them, and they were crowded in a deep and narrow place. At 
first the sun by day was still scorching and suffocating, for they had no 
roof over their heads, while the autumn nights were cold, and the extremes 
of temperature engendered violent disorders. Being cramped for room they 
had to do everything on the same spot. The corpses of those who died 
from their wounds, exposure to the weather, and the like, lay heaped one 
upon another. The smells were intolerable, and they were at the same time 
afflicted by hunger and thirst. During eight months they were allowed only 
about half a pint of water and a pint of food a day. Every kind of misery 
which could befall man in such a place befell them. This was the condition 
of all the captives for about ten weeks. At length the Syracusans sold them, 
with the exception of the Athenians and of any Sicilian or Italian Greeks 
who had sided with them in the war. The whole number of the public 
prisoners is not accurately known, but they were not less than seven 
thousand. 

Of all the Hellenic actions which took place in this war, or indeed of all 
Hellenic actions which are on record, this was the greatest — the most 
glorious to the victors, the most ruinous to the vanquished ; for they were 
utterly and at all points defeated, and their sufferings were prodigious. 
Fleet and army perished from the face of the earth ; nothing was saved, and 
of the many who went forth few returned home. 

Thus ended the Sicilian expedition. 



CHAPTER III.— XENOPHON. 

I. — Xenophon's Relation to Thucydides. His Life. The Anabasis. II. — The Hel- 
lenica. Qualities of Xenophon's Style. The Memorabilia. III. — The Cyropaedia. 
an Historical Novel. IV. — Xenophon's Minor Writings. The Possible Reasons 
for his Great Fame. His General, but Safe, Mediocrity. V. — Extracts. 

I. 

NATURALLY enough the followers of Thucydides took pains to 
avoid the obscurity of their great predecessor. Xenophon, for 
example, in his Hellenica, in which he takes up the thread of history 
where Thucydides had laid it down, and carries on the narration to the 
battle of Mantineia in 363 B.C., writes simply and easily without 
imitating the severe compression of his master. This change was 
necessary, and may be compared with the similar improvement of the 
French prose style between Montaigne and Boileau, or with the swift 
development of fluency between Milton and Dryden. In these cases 
the underlying cause was the same, namely, the new interest in count- 
less novel subjects, and, above all, the abundant practice, which soon 
settled the laws of syntax and left old-fashioned obscurities forgotten 
and neglected. Yet, with all his difficulties, Thucydides far overtops 
Xenophon, who is distinctly a second-class man whose work has been 
preserved among that of men of far greater importance. This good 
fortune is due in good measure, doubtless, to admiration for his lucid 
expression. The winnowing of time has buried almost everything 
but the very best of Greek work ; Xenophon, however, is left to show 
us that even a Greek could be distinctly commonplace. There is but 
little chance that writers of the present time will be taught to over- 
look the importance of a good style, but behind that attractive and 
useful accomplishment exists the necessity of having something of 
real importance to say. Xenophon wrote with delightful simplicity, 
but the quality of his work, the message that he had to deliver, would 
have given him a higher place among Roman writers than that which 
he holds among the Greek. His position as successor to Thucydides, 
and in a way a rival of Plato, is one that he fills but meagerly, for 
Thucydides remains without a rival, as the one writer who, by rigidly 
suppressing his own personality, has made his personality almost the 
most impressive in the whole world of letters. 

Xenophon was born in Athens at an uncertain date, though probably 



572 



XENOPHON. 



not far from the beginning of the Peloponnesian war, 431 B.C. He 
grew up then a constant witness of the gradual defeat of his native 
city, but also under the influence of the great intellectual stimulants 
with which that decay was accompanied. He early became a devoted 
adherent of Socrates, who was then conveying his lessons to any one 
who would listen to him. The story runs that Xenophon first made 

the great philosopher's ac- 
quaintance in this wise : he 
was passing through a narrow 
alley-way, when Socrates 
barred his passage with a 
stick that he held in his hand, 
and asked the boy if he 
knew where provisions were 
sold. " In the market-place," 
was the answer. " And where 
are men made good and 
noble?" Xenophon had no 
answer ready for that, and 
Socrates bade him follow him 
and learn. The boy appears 
to have regarded Socrates as 
friend whose advice would be 
of service to him, for in the 
year 402 B.C., on receiving from 
a friend named Proxenus an in- 
vitation to come to Sardis and 
enter the service of Cyrus, 
younger brother of Arta- 
xerxes, King of Persia, he con- 
suited Socrates as to the wis- 
dom of this course. Socrates 
feared that he would get into trouble with the Athenians by allying 
himself with Cyrus, who, it was believed, had aided the Spartans in 
their war against Athens, hence he advised his young friend to consult 
the oracle at Delphi. But Xenophon ingeniously asked Apollo to 
what god he should sacrifice in order to accomplish his intended jour- 
ney most propitiously, and sacrificed, in obedience, to Zeus the king. 
Socrates blamed him for this boyish deceit, but bade him go. 

This journey was a most eventful one, and is fully described in 
Xenophon's Anabasis. From this book it appears that Cyrus, who 
was, as has just been said, the younger brother of Artaxerxes, King of 
Persia, feeling himself defrauded of his just rights, determined upon 




XENOPHON. 



XENOPHON LEADS THE RETREAT OF THE TEN THOUSAND, 573 

making a bold and secret effort to win the crown of that country. For 
this purpose he gathered together a force of Greeks, whose military 
skill and bravery were well attested by the defeat of Persia fifty years 
before, under the pretense that he meant to make an attack on the 
mountaineers of Pisidia. The Greeks were in no way averse to what 
promised to be a lucrative campaign, and started off in March or 
April, 401 B.C., with no suspicion of the real purpose of their Persian 
leader. Cyrus, who was a young man but little over twenty, kept his 
counsel well, and distinguished himself from other Oriental potentates 
by the exact performance of every promise. He led the band of 
about ten thousand men, a number afterwards somewhat increased, 
directly inland, and only when they were far from the coast did he 
disclose his real purpose. After some little hesitation, the Greeks, 
tempted by further liberal promises, decided to push on. The advance 
met with no opposition until Cyrus encountered Artaxerxes with his 
army at Cunaxa, only about fifty miles distant from Babylonia. Here 
a battle was fought in which the Greek contingent was successful, and 
the rout of Artaxerxes would have been complete, if a body of Spar- 
tans had not disobeyed orders by keeping close to a river instead of 
advancing. Cyrus, observing that Artaxerxes was about to make a 
flank movement on the victorious body of Greeks that had wholly 
swept aside the Persian left, led a charge of his body-guard of six 
hundred men against the Persian center where the king was, and in the 
attack Cyrus was slain. The ten thousand Greeks now found them- 
selves, at the beginning of September, in a strange country, far from 
the sea-coast, confronted by a formidable host, and without a leader. 
A more difficult position can not be imagined, especially for the Greeks 
with their repugnance to long excursions from the familiar seaboard. 
It was at this crisis, when all the Greeks were in absolute despair, 
that Xenophon came forward, inspired by a dream of his father's house 
being struck by lightning and set on fire, a dream that was like an 
oracle in its capacity for opposing explanations. He at once addressed 
his fellow-officers, encouraging them not to abandon hope, reminding 
them of the previous victories of the Greeks over the Persians, and of 
the perils they ran in placing any confidence in such treacherous foes. 
They thus plucked up their courage and determined to do their best 
to accomplish what had seemed an impossible task. The command 
was divided among five officers, Xenophon being one of the two 
appointed to take charge of the rear-guard. The next morning the 
army began its march, formed in a hollow square, enclosing the baggage. 
The retreating forces were much harassed by the Persian cavalry 
during the first day, and Xenophon, who was really the soul of the 
army, mounted fifty men on baggage-horses with the further aid of 



574 



XENOPHON. 



two hundred expert slingers, a device that was perfectly successful 
even when they were attacked by one thousand cavalry and four 
thousand archers and slingers. They crossed the Carduchian moun- 
tains, fighting uninterruptedly for seven days with the natives, but 
freed at last from the more formidable Persian host, and forded the 
river Centrites into Armenia. They were now, towards the end of 
November, on the high table-lands of that country, exposed to snow- 
storms and cold for which they were ill-prepared. Many perished and 
all suffered from exposure to the fierceness of the weather, as they 
wandered without a guide for six days. When they got down to a 




A HOLLOW SQUARE. 



lower level, it was but to meet new enemies in the various Georgian 
tribes who attacked them on every side. At last from the top of 
Mount Theches they got sight of the distant Euxine. 

"When the men who were in front," says Xenophon, "had mounted the 
height, and looked down upon the sea, a great shout proceeded from them ; 
and Xenophon and the rear-guard, when they heard it, thought that some 
new enemies were assailing their front. . . . But as the noise still increased, 
and drew nearer, and as those who came up from time to time kept running 
at full speed to join those who were continually shouting, the cries growing 
louder as the men became more numerous, it appeared to Xenophon that it 
must be something of very great importance. Mounting his horse, there- 
fore, and taking with him Lycius and the cavalry, he hastened forward to 
give aid, when presently they heard the soldiers shouting, ' The sea, the sea ! ' 
and cheering on one another. They then all began to run, the rear-guard 
as well as the rest, and the baggage-cattle and horses were put to their speed. 
When they had all reached the top the men embraced one another and their 
generals and captains with tears in their eyes." 



THE SUBJECT OF THE ANABASIS. 575 

Their troubles were not over, however, although the obstacles that 
immediately threatened them were speedily overcome. The Macrones 
were drawn up to resist their march, but among the ten thousand there 
happened to be one of that tribe who was able to explain matters to 
their satisfaction, so that they aided the progress of the retreating 
Greeks. The Colchians persisted in their hostile intent until the Greeks 
charged on them, when they relented and fled. The most dangerous 
foe that they found hereabout was some poisonous honey that disabled 
several of the men for a few days. Two more marches brought the 
8600 survivors at last to Trapezus (now Trebizond) where they rested 
for a month. Their retreat was now over in February of the year 400 
B.C. Thanks in great measure to the tact and ingenuity of Xenophon 
they had escaped from a powerful foe, and had survived strange perils 
that had at first seemed insuperable. They brought with them not 
only a well-earned reputation for bravery, but also abundant testimony 
of the weakness of Persia. That empire, with its vast forces and 
enormous wealth, had always seemed a dangerous antagonist ; now its 
reputation was gone, and although for some time it continued 
to subsidize one Greek state against another, its fate was sealed. 
Alexander the Great, when he had conquered Greece, conquered 
Persia, and put a final blow to all danger from the old Oriental 
monarchies. 

The remaining two books of the Anabasis recount the further adven- 
tures of this army, which was driven by want to enroll itself among 
the forces of the exiled Thracian ruler Seuthes. For two months they 
fought successfully, but Seuthes broke his promises, and refused to 
make the agreed payments. Xenophon especially aroused his dislike, 
and even the soldiers began to detest their old leader, who, however, was 
able to win back their confidence. Then messengers arrived from the 
Spartan Thibron, inviting them to join him in an attack on their old 
enemy Tissaphernes, the Persian satrap. This proposal they accepted 
eagerly, especially when Seuthes consented to pay at least a part of 
the sum he owed them. But Xenophon, when he left him, was in such 
poverty that he had to raise money by selling his horse in Lampsacus. 
Soon, however, fortune changed, and, by a lucky turn of events, 
Xenophon was able to return to Greece a rich man. This fortunate 
result he ascribed to the special interposition of Zeus the Gracious ; 
that it was satisfactory, may be gathered from his statement that he 
was now able " even to serve a friend." Many of his companions 
doubtless returned with him ; those who remained were merged into 
the Spartan army that succeeded in freeing many of the Greek cities 
in Asia Minor from Persian rule. 

The Anabasis has a charm that is not always found in the writings 



576 XENOPHON. 

of Xenophon, in that it describes the author's own adventures and his 
own very creditable conduct in the most trying conditions. The style 
has a delightful, Bunyan-like simplicity, and the tact with which 
Xenophon exercised the Athenian's birthright, the gift of oratory, 
renders the book instructive as well as entertaining. The account of 
the intrigues that were woven about this formidable little host, which 
was rather feared than loved, although much condensed in the abstract 
given above, shows Xenophon's skill as well as the disintegrating forces 
that were at work in Greece. His future career further illustrates 
these baleful processes : within three years after his return he was 
fighting under the Lacedaemonian King Agesilaus against the Persians 
in Asia Minor and when the Athenians joined hands with the Persians, 
he took part in the invasion of northern Greece and fought against 
the Athenians and their Theban auxiliaries when they were defeated 
at Coroneia, in 394 B.C. For his lack of patriotism he was formally 
banished. 

Yet this statement proves rather the complexity of Hellenic 
politics than any personal treachery of Xenophon's. When govern- 
ments perpetually shifted their ground, honorable men might well 
regard consistency as something superior to blind allegiance. Xeno- 
phon had returned to Athens shortly after the execution of his old 
friend Socrates, and of their friendship he left a monument in his 
Memorabilia. Moreover Xenophon had an especial admiration for 
some of the Spartan qualities, that were now employed against his old 
antagonists the Persians, and it must have been with content that he 
settled down in the new home granted him by the Lacedaemonians at 
Scillus, a village about two miles distant from Olympia. Here he built 
an altar and a temple, and found the occupation in which he most 
delighted in hunting the abundant game. Here, too, it was that he 
wrote his later books. In his old age he was driven out from this 
pleasant retreat by war and forced to seek refuge in Corinth. The 
Athenians and Spartans were now united against the Thebans, and 
his sentence of banishment was repealed. He sent his two sons to 
Athens, and both of them fought at Mantineia ; the story runs that 
when the news was brought to the aged father, he happened to be 
offering a sacrifice, with a garland on his head. This he took off on 
hearing the sad tidings, but when he heard that his son had died 
nobly, he replaced it, and refused to weep, because, he said, he knew 
that his son was mortal. He is said to have died at the age of 90. 

II. 

Mention has already been made of the Hellenica, or Greek history, 
which Xenophon brought down to the battle of Mantineia, but no 



THE HELLENICA— QUALITIES OF XENOPHON'S STYLE. 577 

abstract can be given of it which shall not be a mere condensation of 
the turbid stream of Grecian politics and conflicts. The book tells its 
story briefly and simply ; its artless grace was much admired by the 
ancients, who called its author the " Attic bee," but it wholly lacks 
the fascinating credulity and the serious, childlike earnestness of 
Herodotus, as well as the austerer qualities of Thucydides. Indeed, 
one might not go wrong in saying that the pleasing moderation of 
Xenophon's style, the song of the Attic bee, was the characteristic 
note of his temperate thought ; it most harmoniously matched the 
comparative tepidity of his intelligence, as that graceful style always 
does. We see the same correspondence throughout all literature ; the 
somewhat similar ease and grace of Addison were the expression of a 
corresponding moderation in the message he had to deliver: civiliza- 
tion, decorum, elegance, were the subject of his graceful lessons, and 
his style well represented what he had undertaken to preach. A more 
serious message requires and secures a more impressive style. This is 
what we notice in a comparison between ^Eschylus and Euripides, one, 
as it were, Titan, and the other a man of complex civilization ; the 
language of the older poet being as majestic as his sublime thought, 
under which he staggers, while the other possesses all fluency that 
clear thought alone can give. In Thucydides, again, we notice besides 
the clumsiness inherent in the newness of prose, his frequent stumbling 
over the intensity and complexity of what he had to say, while Xeno- 
phon with his less piercing vision knew no such difficulties. The state- 
ment that his style was like Addison's does not contradict this, it 
merely enforces its noticeable freedom from obscurity ; its rhythmical, 
almost excessive modulations show that it was of course subject to the 
conditions that make all literature. 

The upshot of this statement is but the affirmation of the undeniable 
fact that Xenophon possessed his full share of mediocrity. Thucydides 
hides all personal feeling, but his hand trembles with the effort : 
Xenophon's impartiality, in the Hellenica at least, is more nearly that 
of indifference. Yet in the Memorabilia, in which he records the con- 
versation of Socrates, he was certainly not indifferent, and he has left 
posterity a most valuable amount of testimony with regard to that 
eminent philosopher. Indeed, it is to Plato and Xenophon that we 
are indebted for by far the largest part of our knowledge of Socrates, 
and while Plato has idealized him, Xenophon has possibly erred in the 
other direction by neglecting some of the more delicate qualities of 
his subtle character. Still the book is of great value, in the first place 
because it testifies to the activity of intellectual life among the Greeks, 
that an event of so great importance as the execution of Socrates 
should have called forth a protest from one of his friends, and, 
secondly, because of the information that it gives. The charges that 



57 8 XENOPHON. 

were brought against Socrates were twofold — first, that he was guilty 
of impiety towards the gods, and secondly, that he was a corrupter of 
youth. This is the indictment to which Xenophon pleads. Besides 
a general defense of his old friend and teacher, he recites a number of 
the conversations of Socrates to show his devotion to the gods, and 
the benefits that he did to men of all conditions of life. He makes it 
clear that Socrates always sought to distinguish good from evil and to 
inculcate righteousness. The conversations are most vividly reported, 
with a charming air of reality, and are so arranged in four books as to 
cover the various forms of instruction which the philosopher was never 
tired of inculcating. Thus, in the first book Xenophon makes mention 
of the conversations of Socrates concerning the duties of men towards 
the gods ; in the second, on the social relations ; in the third, on public 
duties ; in the fourth, he shows how Socrates tried to find out the 
capacity of each one of his interlocutors, how it was to be directed, 
and how made complete. The whole book sets Socrates in a most 
favorable light, and casts a corresponding cloud on the Athenian 
democracy. The question that it calls forth will come up again in 
discussing Plato, who brings further testimony concerning these events, 
and it will then be seen how excellent was the impression made upon 
two very different observers by the immortal Socrates. Without 
Xenophon's testimony we should be very much in the dark. 

III. 

The only other one of Xenophon's long works is the Cyropaedia, 
or the Education of Cyrus, a historical novel. We have already seen 
the Greeks mingling fiction with their history, for in writing the 
Anabasis it is fair to presume that the author made over his speeches 
with an eye to rhetorical effect, and in this earliest European novel we 
find, by a natural transition, a historical basis underlying the story. 
Yet the historical basis is very slight ; Cyrus, and the various nations 
whom he conquered, and ruled were by no means unfamiliar to the 
Greeks, but to use the Cyropaedia as a document for studying the 
Persians would be like consulting Rasselas for information concerning 
the geography and civil polity of Abyssinia, or pursuing archaeological 
investigations with regard to the prehistoric period in Fenelon's Tele- 
machus. The persons and names were chosen apparently for no other 
reason than that they were on men's lips; the most rigid rule with all 
writers is economy of invention. The scene had to be laid in foreign 
parts, and Xenophon selected Persia a country that was in people's 
thoughts, and one about which he knew something. 

The Cyrus who is the hero of the book is an imaginary being, with 



THE EDUCATION OF YOUTH IN ATHENS. 



579 



no resemblance to the real possessor of that name; it is his flawless 
character, wise education, and subsequent career of uniform success 
that compose the story, which seems meant to show an ideal that 
Xenophon regards as the most practicable and praiseworthy. Some 
of the laws concerning the training of the young which Xenophon 
describes are derived from Sparta rather than from Persia. Boys, 
until the age of sixteen or seventeen, were brought up together under 
a semi-military discipline, learning justice, as Xenophon says, meaning 
that they took charge of the various misdemeanors of one another, 



inflicting punishment, 
and acquiring habits of 
self-control. They 
moreover began to prac- 
tice the use of arms. 
During the next ten 
years, they hunted wild 
beasts and further hard- 
ened themselves for war 
by athletic exercises. 
This training was very 
d i ff e r e n t from that 
which the young Athe- 
nians received, yet its 
obvious advantages, as 
they seemed to Xeno- 
phon, early attracted 
his admiration. Pos- 
sibly, the fact that he 
transferred the system 
to Persia, with reckless 
disregard of probabili- 
ty, goes to show the 
aversion of the Athe- 
nians to learning from 




GREEK HUNTER. 



their enemies. In mod- 
ern times, as we all 
know, it is a persuasive, 
if not a sound, argu- 
ment, when others fail, 
against any needed re- 
form in political busi- 
ness, that it is English 
and so monarchical, or 
in education that it is 
German and so unprac- 
tical. It is easy to 
imagine how much more 
frequently this unwor- 
thy appeal to the pas- 
sions must have been 
used, when we consider 
the vigor of local pre- 
judices among the 
Greeks, and the fact 
that the Athenians were 
sore over the disgrace 
inflicted upon them by 
their successful foes. 
Xenophon continually 
system ; as a soldier of 



shows his high opinion of the Athenian 
fortune he was free to adopt a lofty cosmopolitanism that was also 
encouraged by a desire to help his fellow-countrymen out of their 
difficulties. The fate of Socrates must have shown his friends what 
further perils resulted from the demoralization of Athens. Even on 
its own ground, so to speak, the training of the intellect shows 
itself a failure. 

Certainly the picture that is drawn of the success of Cyrus was of a 
sort to encourage those who agreed with Xenophon regarding educa- 



5 8o 



XENOPHON. 



tion. He conquered all his foes without difficulty, and if, as is said, 
Alexander the Great learned the weakness of Persia from the Anabasis, 
it may not be fanciful to suppose that the Cyropsedia presented him 




DISCOBOLUS CASTING. 
(In the Palazzo Massimi, Rome.) 



a certain sort of ideal representation of a great conqueror which he 
undertook to verify in his own life, just as the great Spanish generals 
who won possession of Mexico imitated the spirit that inspired the 



CYRUS AND ALEXANDER THE GREAT. 



58" 



fantastic romances on which their youth had been nourished. If this 
is the case, Alexander indubitably followed a good model, for Cyrus is 
as wise, discreet, and intelligent a ruler as any crown-prince ever 




DISCOBOLUS RESTING. 
{In the Vatican.') 



promised to be. Besides the notion of universal dominion which was 
shared by Cyrus and Alexander, we find other coincidences that sup- 
port this hypothesis. Thus, the self-restraint which Cyrus in the 



5^2 XENOPHON. 

story imposed upon himself with regard to the beautiful Panthea — an 
incident that forms the first love-tale in European literature — was 
repeated by Alexander in his chivalrous treatment of the wife of 
Darius, who was said to be the most beautiful woman in Asia. When 
Alexander punished Batis by dragging him tied to the tail of his 
chariot in imitation of the indignity inflicted by Achilles on the body 
of Hector, in the Iliad, he openly showed the same spirit ; it is cer- 
tainly possible that he might have been also influenced, by a romance 
which seemed to prophesy his success. In his treatment of his con- 
quered foes, winning them to his side by tact and generosity, he also 
resembled the imaginary Cyrus, as well as in his sympathy with 
philosophers and men of learning. 

The book was probably more or less inspired by Xenophon's 
intimacy with Socrates ; it at any rate contains an undoubted allusion 
to his death in a scene representing Tigranes, the son of the Armenian 
chief, in conversation with Cyrus. That great man asks him what had 
become of a certain sophist with whom he had seen him ; Tigranes 
tells him that his father had put him to death. " And why?" " Out 
of jealousy, Cyrus," answered the Armenian father, " I could not help 
hating that man, because I thought he was stealing my son's heart 
away from me. My son admired him more than he did me." This 
was the very ground on which was made the basis of the accusation 
against Socrates, that he taught sons to hate their fathers. And in 
his farewell speech upon his death-bed, Cyrus expresses his belief in 
the immortality of the soul in a way that reminds the reader of the 
Apology of Socrates. Possibly in other places Xenophon repeats the 
words of his master, extending his influence in a very different way 
from that in which Plato immortalized his name, but with perhaps 
more effect. The book was much admired in antiquity, and even now 
it is infinitely more readable than hosts of romances that have lived 
their day of popularity ; and however it may have been with Alexander 
the Great, we know that Cicero recommended it to his brother Quintus 
as a manual of wise instruction for a ruler, and that it was a favorite 
of Scipio Africanus. 

IV. 

The Apology of Socrates, of which mention has just been made, is 
one of the many minor books of Xenophon that have floated down to 
us with all the security of mediocrity when far more important works 
have wholly perished. It consists of a speech ascribed to Socrates in 
which he defends himself against his accusers, and explains his willing- 
ness to meet his death. Unfortunately the genuineness of the Apology 






THE APOLOGY OF SOCRATES. 



533 



is extremely doubtful. Socrates again appears as a prominent person 
in the Symposium, or Banquet, which represents a fashionable supper- 
party at Athens, where the great philosopher turns the conversation 
with ease and eloquence into good advice for his young friends. Plato, 
as we shall see, wrote another Banquet, in which Socrates was the first 
figure, but he lent it another and profounder quality than that which 
Xenophon gave to his charming sketch. In the book on Husbandry, 
again, we find Socrates taking an important part in the conversation 
regarding what is the oldest as well, perhaps, as the crudest of sciences. 
The book is attractive, and possibly it was from the method here 
employed by Xenophon that Plato conceived the notion of his Socratic 
dialogues. Here, however, we find Socrates represented in a very 
different light from that in which the later writer has set him. He is 
a model of domestic wisdom and kindliness. The book presents an 
attractive picture of the rustic life of the old Greeks, and was highly 
esteemed by the Romans. 

Besides these writings we have Xenophon's enthusiastic eulogy of 
Agesilaus, the Spartan, admiration of Spartan ways being one of this 
author's characteristics; an imaginary conversation between Hiero, 
tyrant of Syracuse, and Simonides, in which the miseries of a despot's 
life are portrayed ; political essays on Lacedsemonia and Athens ; and 




HORSE-TRAINING. 



an essay on the training of a horse and similar subjects, in which he 
repeats his familiar praise of hunting and exercise as training for the 
young. Much that he says is as true now and as valuable as on the 
day it was written. Such, for example, is the undeniably sound advice 
not to approach a horse when under the influence of anger; for anger 
is thoughtless and leads men to actions which they afterwards repent. 
Xenophon's message at the best was not a great one, but he repeated 
and impressed it so carefully on his readers that his influence was great 
and lasting. Indeed, his very moderation and unfailing grace have 



THE SPARTAN AND ATHENIAN POLITICAL SYSTEMS. 585 

always found him admirers, while greater, stronger men have had to 
live through periods of indifference or actual obloquy. No one is 
really great with impunity; a time will come when majesty is held to 
be roughness; naturalness, offensive simplicity ; eloquence bombast ; 
but good-nature and grace, even if they arouse no enthusiasm, are 
always pleasing, and it is probably to the possession of these qualities 
that Xenophon owes a good part of his reputation. He at least never 
offends'. 

More than this, the ready intelligibility of his language is but a sign 
of the clearness and simplicity of his thought, and this is never tired 
of busying itself with the attractiveness and the utility of a life of 
virtue. He is not a moralist who leads enthusiastic disciples to exalted 
heights of renunciation and unselfishness, but rather a sort of Greek 
Franklin whose ideal is a good citizen. Not every one when fretted 
by worldly cares and disappointments can recall the lofty truths which 
only unfold their inspiring secret after long and arduous contemplation, 
but Xenophon's principle, that virtue, happiness, and beauty are three 
faces of a single truth, is readily grasped and assimilated. The world, 
too, was ready to approve another of the main inspirations of his work, 
namely, his unconcealed admiration for the civil polity that gave 
strength to Sparta in its struggle with Athens. The conflict between 
those two civilizations was a many-sided one ; it was due not merely 
to the natural hostility of one state to another, to the simple objection 
of one powerful nation to the leadership of a rival, but it was embit- 
tered by jealousy and by the instinctive dislike that an aristocracy 
always feels for its democratic neighbors. Instances abound in modern 
history, as in the feeling of the imperial governments of the Continent 
for England and America. This last was a most important element, 
not merely in the Peloponnesian war, but in its continued effect upon 
men's minds for many generations. 

Sparta was an aristocracy, and possessed what we may call a strong 
government which demanded and kept a firm hold upon every citizen. 
Athens was a democracy resting on wholly opposite principles, when 
the freedom of the individual citizen was the corner-stone of its civic 
existence. We are mainly concerned at this moment with its influence 
upon literature, and we have seen what this was in the study of the 
magnificent works wherein the eager life of the time found expression. 
Xenophon, however, was an aristocrat by birth and by feeling, and the 
views that he expressed with ingenuity regarding the superiority of 
the Spartan to the Athenian political system became common in 
Athens as a natural result of the excesses of the democracy and of its 
defeat in the war. The unjust death of Socrates had an enormous 
effect in forming men's opinions ; and the general overthrow of all that 



5 86 XENOPHON. 

was held precious produced the same result that repeated itself in 
modern history with men like Wordsworth, who hailed the French 
Revolution with delight, and were afterwards horrified into the con- 
demnation of their earlier raptures. Henceforth Athens was a divided 
city, torn by intestine strife, or at least by divergent counsels, with the 
aristocracy and the democracy regarding each other with active hos- 
tility. It lost its previous magnificent unity ; how much this was 
imperilled in the Peloponnesian war has been evident in the hostility 
that Aristophanes showed to Euripides. That schism extended further 
until the Athenian democracy failed, as we judge human failure, and 
in the futile arguments of Demosthenes, in the equally powerless 
eloquence of Socrates, we shall find further illustrations of the hopeless- 
ness of all attempts to make over the past as we have already seen it 
in the plays of Aristophanes. 

Xenophon's repugnance to the democracy was, however, not a mere 
personal quality of his own, but also in great measure an expression 
of the natural change of sentiments which was coming over a whole 
generation of men. Instances of its power with him abound in all his 
works, as in the veiled encomiums of Sparta in his imaginary pictures 
of Persia, and throughout the Hellenica when he has occasion to point 
out the excesses of the democracy in contrast with the greater wisdom 
of the aristocracy. Thus, when he had to speak of a massacre at 
Corinth, where a number of nobles were put to death, he felt and 
expressed all the repugnance that would have animated an Englishman 
at the beginning of this century when he spoke of the French Revolu- 
tion. To be sure, Xenophon condemns the bloody vengeance that 
the Thirty Tyrants in Athens took upon the democracy, but it is only 
with temperate and cooler indignation. Generally, to be sure, it is 
Sparta that receives all the praise, not from treachery or a disgraceful 
lack of patriotism, but simply because the Lacedaemonians were the 
best representatives of the party of law and order. Their principles 
appeared to be the only ones that could save Greece from anarchy, 
and to advocate them seemed to Xenophon the direct duty of an 
honest man who had the good of his country at heart. It was not a 
new influx of brotherly love that brought Russians, Austrians, Prus- 
sians, and Englishmen to unite against Napoleon Bonaparte, but a 
desire to save society; and, too, in the case before us, after the failure 
of democracy, aristocratic principles held out the only hope of escaping 
ruin, and strict adherence to Athens was, in the eyes of Xenophon and 
the many who agreed with him, only a narrow and pernicious interpre- 
tation of real duty to their country. Its liberty, it was thought, was 
merely licentiousness ; the universal right of speech seemed to give 
room for the power of demagogues ; the rule of the multitude was 



SPARTAN SUPREMACY— XENOPHON' S ARISTOCRATIC VIEWS. 5 8 7 

mob rule, and in comparison no praise was too warm for the institu- 
tions of Sparta, which kept the citizens, from infancy to old age, bound 
up in in a narrow circle of clearly defined duties, and left the supreme 
control in the hands of a small, select number of men. Thenceforth, 
we may see the prevalence of these views not merely in Athens, where 
it prevailed against the fervid eloquence of Demosthenes, and so 
opened the gates to the Macedonians, but throughout the entire 
civilization of the subsequent ages. It does not cover the ground to 
say that Xenophon laconized, as they called it, or became an adherent 
of Sparta ; the whole world laconized. It looked with horror on a 
method of government which had failed completely and ended in 
violence and anarchy. To be sure, the material power of Sparta lasted 
for but a very short time, and its defeat at Leuktra, in 371 B.C., 
destroyed many of the hopes that had gathered around it, but the 
underlying spirit of confidence in aristocracy and of distrust in democ- 
racy survived the downfall of its strongest supporter. The condition 
of Athens was not materially improved by the overthrow of Sparta, 
and the fate of the city served as a solemn warning against all 
sympathy with democracy. A chapter of human experience seemed 
closed. 

In Xenophon the world saw a man who was a powerful and eloquent 
ally of their cause, and, naturally enough, every effort was made to 
point out his importance. He had the good fortune to express what 
was the animating principle of future civilizations, namely, absolute 
confidence in a strong government, and a Greek who spoke words of 
what seemed the highest wisdom was sure to be admired, especially 
when he brought to this side some of the authority which had been 
acquired by men with very different views. Some of the light of those 
who lived before him in happier days still illuminated him ; he held 
an important position as the man who continued the history of 
Thucydides, as the biographer of Socrates, and that gave added 
weight to the writer who pointed out the path which the world was 
to follow for many centuries. It is also interesting to notice how well 
he represents the best side of what we may call the aristocratic party. 
Wit, grace, unfailing decorum, what is called good sense, are his char- 
acteristic qualities ; they found him enthusiastic admirers in Rome 
and preserved his popularity in modern times so long as men felt that 
material security and literary charm rested on a common groundwork 
of conventionality which it would be indiscreet to examine too closely. 
He was admirably fitted to retain the position which he soon acquired 
as the favorite of men whose views of the world were like his own, 
and it is to his excellence as a representative of what in comparison 
with the greatest men who preceded him is mediocrity that he owes his 



5^8 XENOPHON. 

long-lived fame. He was safe in the possession of what appeared to 
be worldly wisdom, and whatever one may think of his principles, this 
fact, that was so long the ideal of intelligence and security, gives 
Xenophon a historical importance which no change of opinions can 
ever justly deny him. The world will never learn anything by shut- 
ting its eyes to facts, past or present. 



V. 
THE DEATH-BED OF CYRUS THE ELDER. 



After he had thus spent some considerable time, Cyrus, now in a very 
advanced age, takes a journey into Persia, which was the seventh from the 
acquisition of his empire, when his father and mother had probably been 
for some time dead. Cyrus made the usual sacrifices, and danced the 
Persian dance, according to the custom of his country, and distributed to 
every one presents, as usual. Then, being asleep in the royal palace, he 
had the following dream. There seemed to advance towards him a person 
with more than human majesty in his air and countenance, and to say to 
him : " Cyrus, prepare yourself, for you are now going to the gods ! " 
After this appearance in his dream he awaked, and seemed assured that 
his end drew near. Therefore, taking along with him the victims, he sacri- 
ficed on the summit of a mountain (as is the custom in Persia) to Jove 
paternal, the Sun, and the rest of the gods, accompanying the sacrifices 
with this prayer : 

" O Jove, Paternal Sun, and all ye gods ! receive these sacrifices, as the 
completion of many worthy and handsome actions ; and as grateful acknowl- 
edgments for having signified to me, both by the victims, by celestial signs, 
by birds, and by omens, what became me to do, and not to do. And I abun- 
dantly return you thanks, that I have been sensible of your care and protec- 
tion ; and that, in the course of my prosperity, I never was exalted above 
what became a man. I implore you now to bestow all happiness on my 
children, my wife, my friends, and my country ; and for myself, that I may 
die as I have always lived." 

When he had finished his sacrifices and prayer he returned home, and 
finding himself disposed to be quiet, he lay down. At a certain hour proper 
persons attended, and offered him to wash. He told them that he had rested 
very well. Then, at another hour, proper officers brought him his supper; 
but Cyrus had no appetite to eat, but seemed thirsty, and drank with 
pleasure. And continuing thus the second and third days, he sent for his 
sons, who, as it happened, had attended their father, and were then in 
Persia. He summoned likewise his friends, and the magistrates of Persia. 
When they were all met, he began in this manner : 

" Children, and all of you, my friends, here present ! the conclusion of my 
life is now at hand, which I certainly know from many symptoms. You 
ought, when I am dead, to act and speak of me in everything as a happy 
man ; for, when I was a child, I seemed to have received advantage from 
what is esteemed worthy and handsome in children ; so likewise, when I was 



EXTRACT FROM THE CYROP^EDIA. 589 

a youth, from what is esteemed so in young men ; so, when I came to be a 
man, from what is esteemed worthy and handsome in men. And I have 
always seemed to observe myself increase with time in strength and vigour, 
so that I have not found myself weaker or more infirm in my old age than 
in my youth. Neither do I know that I have desired or undertaken any- 
thing in which I have not succeeded. By my means my friends have 
been made happy, and my enemies enslaved ; and my country, at first 
inconsiderable in Asia, I leave in great reputation and honour. Neither do 
I know that I have not preserved whatever I acquired. And though, in 
time past, all things have succeeded according to my wishes, yet an appre- 
hension lest, in process of time, I should see, hear, or suffer some difficulty, 
has not suffered me to be too much elated, or too extravagantly delighted. 
Now if I die, I leave you, children, behind me, (whom the gods have given 
me,) and I leave my country and my friends happy. Ought not I therefore, 
in justice, to be always remembered, and mentioned as fortunate and happy? 
I must likewise declare to whom I leave my kingdom, lest that being doubtful 
should hereafter raise dissensions among you. Now, children, I bear an 
equal affection to you both ; but I direct that the elder should have the 
advising and conducting of affairs, as his age requires, and it is probable he 
has more experience. And as I have been instructed by my country and 
yours to give place to those elder than myself, not only brothers, but fellow- 
citizens, both in walking, sitting, and speaking ; so have I instructed you, 
from your youth, to show a regard to your elders, and to receive the like 
from such as were inferior to you in age ; receive then this disposition as 
ancient, customary, and legal. Do you therefore, Cambyses, hold the king- 
dom as allotted you by the gods, and by me, so far as it is in my power. 
To you, Tanoaxares, I bequeath the satrapy of the Medes, Armenians, and 
Cadusians ; which when I allot you, I think I leave your elder brother a 
larger empire, and the title of a kingdom, but to you a happiness freer from 
care and vexation : for I do not see what human satisfaction you can need ; 
but you will enjoy whatever appears agreeable and pleasing to men. An 
affection for such things as are difficult to execute, a multitude of pains, and 
an impossibility of being quiet, anxiety from an emulation of my actions, 
forming designs yourself and having designs formed against you : these are 
things which must more necessarily attend a king than one in your station ; 
and be assured these give many interruptions to pleasure and satisfaction. 
Know, therefore, Cambyses, that it is not the golden sceptre which can pre- 
serve your kingdom ; but faithful friends are a prince's truest and securest 
sceptre. But do not imagine that men are naturally faithful (for then they 
would appear so to all, as other natural endowments do), but every one must 
render others faithful to himself : and they are not to be procured by vio- 
lence, but rather by kindness and beneficence. If therefore you would con- 
stitute other joint guardians with you of your kingdom, whom can you better 
begin with than him who is of the same blood with yourself ? and fellow- 
.citizens are nearer to us than strangers, and those who live and eat with us, 
than those that do not. And those who have the same original, who have 
been nourished by the same mother, and grown up in the same house, and 
beloved by the same parents, and who call on the same father and mother, 
are not they, of all others, the nearest to us ? Do you not therefore render 
those advantages fruitless, by which the gods unite brothers in affinity and 
relation ; but to those advantages add other friendly offices, and by that 
means your friendship will be reciprocally solid and lasting. The taking 



59° XENOPHON. 

care of a brother is providing for oneself. To whom can the advancement 
of a brother be equally honourable, as to a brother ? Who can show a regard 
to a great and powerful man equal to his brother? Who will fear to injure 
another, so much as him whose brother is in an exalted station ? Be there- 
fore second to none in submission and good-will to your brother, since no 
one can be so particularly serviceable or injurious to you. And I would 
have you consider how you can hope for greater advantages by obliging any 
one so much as him? Or whom can you assist that will be so powerful an 
ally in war? Or what is more infamous than want of friendship between 
brothers ? Whom of all men, can we so handsomely pay regard to as to a 
brother ? In a word, Cambyses, your brother is the only one you can advance 
next to your person without the envy of others. Therefore, in the name of 
the gods, children, have regard for one another, if you are careful to do what 
is acceptable to me. For you ought not to imagine, you certainly know, 
that after I have closed this period of human life, I shall no longer exist : 
for neither do you now see my soul, but you conclude, from its operations, 
that it does exist. And have you not observed what terrors and apprehen- 
sions murderers are inspired with by those who have suffered violence from 
them ? What racks and torture do they convey to the guilty ? Or how do 
you think honours should have continued to be paid to the deceased, if their 
souls were destitute of all power and virtue ? No, children, I can never be 
persuaded that the soul lives no longer than it dwells in this mortal body, 
and that it dies on its separation ; for I see that the soul communicates 
vigour and motion to mortal bodies during its continuance in them. Neither 
can I be persuaded that the soul is divested of intelligence on its separation 
from this gross, senseless body ; but it is probable that when the soul is 
separated, it becomes pure and entire, and then is more intelligent. It is 
evident that, on man's dissolution, every part of him returns to what is of 
the same nature with itself, except the soul ; that alone is invisible, both 
during its presence here, and at its departure. And you may have observed 
that nothing resembles death so much as sleep ; but then it is that the human 
soul appears most divine, and has a prospect of futurity ; for then it is pro- 
bable that the soul is most free and independent. If therefore things are as 
I think, and that the soul leaves the body, having regard to my soul, comply 
with my request. But if it be otherwise, and that the soul continuing in the 
body perishes with it, let nothing appear in your thoughts or actions criminal 
or impious, for fear of the gods, who are eternal, whose power and inspection 
extend over all things, and who preserve the harmony and order of the 
universe free from decay or defect, whose greatness and beauty is inexplic- 
able ! Next to the gods, have regard to the whole race of mankind in per- 
petual succession : for the gods have not concealed you in obscurity ; but 
there is a necessity that your actions should be conspicuous to the world. 
If they are virtuous, and free from injustice, they will give you power and 
interest in all men ; but if you project what is unjust against each other, no 
man will trust you ; for no one can place a confidence in you, though his 
inclination to it be ever so great, when he sees you unjust, where it most 
becomes you to be a friend. If therefore I have not rightly instructed you 
what you ought to be to one another, learn it from those who lived before 
our time, for that will be the best lesson. For there are many who have 
lived affectionate parents to their children, and friends to their brothers ; 
and some there are who have acted the opposite part towards each other. 
Whichsoever of these you shall observe to have been most advantageous, 



CYRUS THE YOUNGER: FROM THE ANABASIS. 591 

you will do well in giving it the preference in your choice. But perhaps this 
is sufficient as to these matters. When I am dead, children, do not enshrine 
my body in gold, nor in silver, nor anything else ; but lay it in the earth as 
soon as possible ; for what can be more happy than to mix with the earth, 
which gives birth and nourishment to all things excellent and good ? And 
as I have always hitherto borne an affection for men, so it is now most 
pleasing to me to incorporate with that which is beneficial to men. Now," 
said he, " it seems to me that my soul is beginning to leave me, in the same 
manner as it is probable it begins its departure with others. If therefore 
any of you are desirous of touching my right hand, or willing to see my face 
while it has life, come near to me : for, when I shall have covered it, I 
request, of you, children, that neither yourselves, nor any others, would look 
on my body. Summon all the Persians and their allies before my tomb, to 
rejoice for me ; that I shall be then out of danger of suffering any evil, 
whether I shall be with the gods, or shall be reduced to nothing. As many 
as come, do you dismiss with all those favours that are thought proper for a 
happy man. And," said he, " remember this as my last and dying words. 
If you do kindnesses to your friends, you will be able to injure your enemies. 
Farewell, dear children, and tell this to your mother as from me. And all 
you, my friends, both such of you as are here present, and the rest who are 
absent — farewell ! " Having said this, and taken every one by the right 
hand, he covered himself, and thus expired. 

THE VICTORY AND DEATH OF CYRUS THE YOUNGER. 

FROM THE ANABASIS. BOOK I., CHAP. VIII. 

It was now about the time of day when the market is usually crowded, 
the army being near the place where they proposed to encamp, when Patagyas, 
a Persian, one of those whom Cyrus most confided in, was seen riding towards 
them full speed, his horse all in a sweat, and he calling to every one he met, 
both in his own language and in Greek, that the king was at hand with a vast 
army, marching in order of battle ; which occasioned a general confusion 
among the Greeks, all expecting he would charge them before they had put 
themselves in order : but Cyrus, leaping from his car, put on his corselet, 
then, mounting his horse, took his javelins in his hand, ordered all the rest to 
arm, and every man to take his post : by virtue of which command they 
quickly formed themselves, Clearchus on the right wing close to the Eu- 
phrates, next to him Proxenus, and after him the rest : Menon and his men 
were posted on the left of the Greek army. Of the Barbarians, a thousand 
Paphlagonian horse, with the Greek targeteers, stood next to Clearchus on 
the right : upon the left Ariaeus, Cyrus's lieutenant-general, was placed with 
the rest of the Barbarians : they had large corselets and cuirasses, and all of 
them helmets but Cyrus, who placed himself in the centre with six hundred 
horse, and stood ready for the charge, with his head unarmed : in which 
manner, they say, it is also customary for the rest of the Persians to expose 
themselves in a day of action : all the horses in Cyrus's army had both front- 
lets and breast-plates, and the horsemen Greek swords. 

It was now in the middle of the day, and no enemy was yet to be seen ; 
but in the afternoon there appeared a dust like a white cloud which not long 
after spread itself like a darkness over the plain ! when they drew nearer, 
the brazen armour flashed, and their spears and ranks appeared, having on 
their left a body of horse armed in white corselets, (said to be commanded 



59 2 XENOPHON. 

by Tissaphernes) and followed by those with Persian bucklers, besides heavy- 
armed men with wooden shields, reaching down to their feet, (said to be 
Egyptians) and other horse, and archers, all which marched according to 
their respective countries, each nation being drawn up in a solid oblong 
square ; and before them were disposed, at a considerable distance from one 
another, chariots armed with scythes fixed aslant at the axle-trees, with 
others under the body of the chariot, pointing downwards, that so they might 
cut asunder everything they encountered, by driving them among the ranks 
of the Greeks to break them ; but it now appeared that Cyrus was greatly 
mistaken when he exhorted the Greeks to withstand the shouts of the Bar- 
barians ; for they did not come on with shouts, but as silently and quietly as 
possible, and in an equal and slow march. Here Cyrus riding along the 
ranks with Pigres the interpreter, and three or four others, commanded 
Clearchus to bring his men opposite to the centre of the enemy, (because 
the king was there,) saying, "If we break that, our work is done"; but 
Clearchus observing their centre, and understanding from Cyrus that the 
king was beyond the left wing of the Greek army, (for the king was so much 
superior in number, that, when he stood in the centre of his own army, he 
was beyond the left wing to that of Cyrus,) Clearchus, I say, would not 
however be prevailed on to withdraw his right from the river, fearing to be 
surrounded on both sides ; but answered Cyrus he would take care all should 
go well. 

Now the Barbarians came regularly on ; and the Greek army standing on 
the same ground, the ranks were formed as the men came up ; in the mean 
time, Cyrus riding at a small distance before the ranks, surveying both the 
enemy's army and his own, was observed by Xenophon, an Athenian, who 
rode up to him, and asked whether he had anything to command : Cyrus, 
stopping his horse, ordered him to let them ail know that the sacrifices and 
victims promise success. 

While he was saying this, upon hearing a horse running through the ranks, 
he asked him what it meant ? Xenophon answered, that the word was now 
giving for the second time ; Cyrus, wondering who should give it, asked 
him what the word was : the other replied, " Jupiter the preserver, and 
victory"; Cyrus replied, "I accept it, let that be the word," after which he 
immediately returned to his post, and the two armies being now within three 
or four stadia of each other, the Greeks sung the paean, and began to advance 
against the enemy ; but the motion occasioning a small fluctuation in the 
line of battle, those who were left behind hastened their march, and at once 
gave a general shout, as their custom is when they invoke the god of war, 
and all ran forward, striking their shields with their pikes (as some say) to 
frighten the enemy's horses : so that, before the Barbarians came within 
reach of their darts, they turned their horses and fled, but the Greeks pur- 
sued them as fast as they could, calling out to one another not to run, but to 
follow in their ranks ; some of the chariots were borne through their own 
people without their charioteers, others through the Greeks, some of whom, 
seeing them coming, divided ; while others, being amazed, like spectators in 
the Hippodrome, were taken unawares, but even these were reported to have 
received no harm, neither was there any other Greek hurt in the action, 
except one upon the left wing, who was said to have been wounded by an 
arrow. 

Cyrus seeing the Greeks victorious on their side, rejoiced in pursuit of the 
enemy, and was already worshipped as king by those about him ; however, 




ARES (LUDOVICI). 
( The God of War.) 



594 XENOPHON. 

he was not so far transported as to leave his post and join in the pursuit : 
but, keeping his six hundred horse in a body, observed the king's motions, 
well knowing that he was in the centre of the Persian army, for in all Bar- 
barian armies the generals ever place themselves in the centre, looking upon 
that post as the safest, on each side of which their strength is equally divided ; 
and if they have occasion to give out any orders, they are received in half 
the time by the army. The king, therefore, being at that time in the centre 
of his own battle, was, however, beyond the left wing of Cyrus ; and, when 
he saw none oppose him in front, nor any motion made to charge the 
troops that were drawn up before him, he wheeled to the left in order to 
surround their army ; whereupon Cyrus, fearing he should get behind him, 
and cut off the Greeks, advanced against the king, and charging with his 
six hundred horse broke those who were drawn up before him, put the six 
thousand men to flight, and, as they say, killed Artaxerxes, their commander, 
with his own hand. 

These being broken, and the six hundred belonging to Cyrus dispersed in 
the pursuit, very few were left about him, and those almost all persons who 
used to eat at his table : however, upon discovering the king properly 
attended, and unable to contain himself, immediately cried out, " I see the 
man ! " then ran furiously at him, and, striking him on the breast, wounded 
him through his corselet, (as Ctesias the physician says, who affirms that he 
cured the wound,) having, while he was giving the blow, received a wound 
under the eye, from somebody, who threw a javelin at him with great force ; 
at the same time, the king and Cyrus engaged hand to hand, and those about 
them, in defence of each. In this action Ctesias (who was with the king) 
informs us how many fell on his side ; on the other, Cyrus himself was 
killed, and eight of his most considerable friends lay dead upon him. When 
Artapates, who was in the greatest trust with Cyrus of any of his sceptred 
ministers, saw him fall, they say, he leaped from his horse, and threw himself 
about him ; when (as some say) the king ordered him to be slain upon the 
body of Cyrus ; though others assert that, drawing his scimitar, he slew 
himself ; for he wore a golden scimitar, a chain, bracelets, and other 
ornaments which are worn by the most considerable Persians ; and was held 
in great esteem by Cyrus, both for his affection and fidelity. 

HELLENICA. "THE FINAL DEFEAT OF ATHENS." 

BOOK II., CHAP. II. 

At Athens, where the Paralus arrived in the night, the calamity was told, 
and a scream of lamentation ran up from the Piraeus through the long walls 
into the city, one person repeating the news to another ; insomuch that no 
single soul that night could take any rest, not merely for lamenting those 
who were lost, but much more for reflecting what themselves in all pro- 
bability were soon to suffer — the like no doubt as themselves had inflicted 
upon the Melians, when they had reduced by siege that colony of the Lace- 
daemonians, on the Istians also, and Scioneans, and Toroneans, and /Eginetse, 
and many other people in Greece. The next day they summoned a general 
assembly, in which " it was resolved to barricade all their harbours excepting 
one, to repair their walls, to fix proper watches, and prepare the city in all 
respects for a siege." All hands accordingly were immediately at work. 

Lysander, who now from the Hellespont was come to Lesbos with two 
hundred sail, took in and re-settled the cities in that island, and especially 



THE SIEGE OF ATHENS: FROM THE HELLENICA. 



595 



Mitylene. He also sent away to the towns of Thrace ten ships commanded 
by Eteonicus, who reduced everything there into subjection to the Lace- 
daemonians. But immediately after the fight at ^Egos-potamos all Greece 
revolted from the Athenians, excepting Samos. At Samos the people, 
having massacred the nobility, held the city for the Athenians. 

In the next place, Lysander sent notice to Agis at Decelea, and to Lace- 
daemon, that " he is sailing up with two hundred ships." The Lacedaemonians 
immediately took the field with their own force, as did the rest of the Pelo- 
ponnesians, except the Argives, upon receiving the order circulated by Pau- 
sanias the other king of Lacedaemon. When they were all assembled, he 
marched away at their head, and encamped them under the walls of Athens, 




SOLDIERS BUILDING A WALL. 



in the place of exercise called the Academy. But Lysander, when come up 
to iEgina, collected together all the yEginetae he could possibly find, and 
replaced them in their city. He did the same to the Melians, and to the 
other people who formerly had been dispossessed. In the next place, having 
laid Salamis waste, he stationed himself before the Piraeus with a hundred 
and fifty ships, and prevented all kind of embarkations from entering that 
harbour. 

The Athenians, thus besieged both by land and sea, and destitute of ships, 
of allies, and of provisions, were miserably perplexed how to act. They 
judged they had nothing to expect but suffering what without provocation 
themselves had made others suffer, when they wantonly tyrannized over petty 
states, and for no other reason in the world than because they were con- 
federate with the state of Lacedaemon. From these considerations, after 
restoring to their full rights and privileges such as were under the sentence 
of infamy, they persevered in holding out ; and though numbers began to 
die for want of meat, they would not bear any motion of treating. But when 
their corn began totally to fail, they sent ambassadors to Agis, offering " to 
become confederates with the Lacedaemonians, reserving to themselves the 
long walls and the Piraeus," and on these terms would accept an accom- 
modation. Yet Agis ordered them to repair to Lacedaemon, since he himself 
had no power to treat. When the ambassadors had reported this answer to 
the Athenians, they ordered them to go to Lacedaemon. But when they 
were arrived at Seliasia on the frontier of Laconia, and the ephori were 
informed " they were to offer no other proposals than had been made by 
Agis," they sent them an order " to return to Athens, and when they heartily 
desired peace, to come again with more favourable instructions." When 
therefore the ambassadors returned to Athens, and had reported these things 



THE SURRENDER OE ATHENS. 597 

to the state, a universal despondency ensued ; " slavery," they judged, 
" must unavoidably be their portion ; and whilst they were sending another 
embassy numbers would die of famine." No one durst yet presume to 
advise the demolition of the wails ; since Archestratus, who had only hinted 
in the senate that " it would be best for them to make peace on such terms 
as the Lacedaemonians proposed," had immediately been thrown into prison. 
But the Lacedaemonians proposed that " each of the long walls should be 
demolished to the length of ten stadia "; and a decree had been passed that 
" such a proposal should never be debated." 

In this sad situation, Theramenes offered to the general assembly that 
" if they would let him go to Lysander he could inform them, at his return, 
whether the Lacedaemonians insisted on the demolition of the walls with a 
view entirely to enslave them, or by way of security only for their future be- 
haviour." He was ordered to go ; and he stayed more than three months 
with Lysander, waiting till a total want of provision should necessitate the 
Athenians to agree to any proposal whatever. But on his return in the 
fourth month, he reported to the general assembly that " Lysander had de- 
tained him all this time, and now orders him to go to Lacedaemon, since he 
had no power to settle the points of accommodation, which could only be 
done by the ephori." Upon this he was chosen with nine others to go am- 
bassador-plenipotentiary to Lacedaemon. Lysander sent Aristotle, an 
Athenian, but under sentence of exile, in company with other Lacedaemo- 
nians, to the ephori, to assure them that " he had referred Theramenes to 
them, who alone were empowered to make peace and war." When therefore 
Theramenes and the other ambassadors were arrived at Sellasia, and were 
asked — " What instructions they had ? " — their answer was, — " They had full 
powers to make a peace." Upon this the ephori called them to an audi- 
ence ; and on their arrival at Sparta they summoned an assembly, in which 
the Corinthians and Thebans distinguished themselves above all others, 
though several joined in their sentiments. They averred that "the Athen- 
ians ought to have no peace at all, but should be utterly destroyed." The 
Lacedaemonians declared, " they would never enslave a Grecian city that 
had done such positive service to Greece in the most perilous times." Ac- 
cordingly they granted a peace on condition " they should demolish the 
long walls and the Piraeus, should deliver up all their ships except twelve, 
should recall their exiles, should have the same friends and the same foes 
with the Lacedaemonians, and follow them at command either by land or 
sea." Theramenes and his colleagues returned to Athens with these- condi- 
tions of peace. At their entering the city a crowd of people flocked about 
them, fearing they had been dismissed without anything done : for their 
present situation would admit of no delay at all, such numbers were perish- 
ing by famine. On the day following, the ambassadors reported the terms 
on which the Lacedaemonians grant a peace. Theramenes was their mouth 
on this occasion, and assured them "they had no resource left, but to obey 
the Lacedaemonians and demolish the walls." Some persons spoke against, 
but a large majority declaring for it, it was resolved " to accept the 
peace." 

In pursuance of this, Lysander stood into the Piraeus, and the exiles re- 
turned into the city. They demolished the walls with much alacrity, music 
playing all the time, since they judged this to be the first day that Greece 
was free. 



BOOK V.— THE ORATORS. 
CHAPTER I.— THE EARLY ORATORS AND ISOCRATES. 

I. — The Difference between Ancient and Modern Notions of the Function of Elo- 
quence. Our Theories Mainly Derived from Roman Declamation. The Greek 
Methods Different. II. — Development of Oratory Among the Greeks. The Influ- 
ence of the Sophists ; the Varying Opinions concerning these Teachers. Their 
Instruction in Philosophy, Rhetoric, and Physics. III. — The Growth of Dialectic in 
Sicily. The Early Teachers, and Their Modification of the Greek Prose Style. 
Its Imitation of Poetical Models, Compared with Euphuism. IV. — Antiphon, An- 
dokides, Lysias ; Isocrates and his Artificial Style. His Political Yearnings. 
Isaeos. The Diversity of Athenian Politics Expressed in the Oratory of Isocrates 
and in his Cunning Art. Its Literary Quality. 

I. 

THE Greek tragedies and histories which we have discussed above 
make very clear the prominence that oratory held among the 
Athenians. Yet, as was said before with regard to the speeches of 
Thucydides, we mean something different from the Greek conception 
of oratory, when we make mention of modern eloquence. There are 
signs that oratory is out of favor with us. Just as poets no longer go 
about reciting their compositions, orators have felt the influence of 
the printing-press, and for every thousand who stand in a hot hall and 
hear them, there are ten or a hundred thousand, at least, who read the 
speeches in the next morning's paper. Hence we notice a change in 
an orator's method when we compare this with what we know of a 
century ago. Passages which might give a hearer a momentary thrill 
are cold and ineffectual in type, and there is a remote, old-fashioned 
flavor about appeals to passion which are less effectual than reasonable 
statements and explanation. This change, if it does actually exist, is 
simply an indication of the decay of the Roman influence and of its 
giving ground before the sounder spirit of the Greeks. The Roman 
orators — Cicero, for example — were apt to indulge in violent outbursts 
of rhetorical passion unknown to their celebrated predecessors, and 
of a kind that would be impossible in any modern forensic discussion. 
Instances of this will be found later. Yet in Rome at the Augustan 
age, the question with regard to the relative merits of the Attic moder- 
ation, and of the later Asiatic exaggeration had been decided in the 



ANCIENT AND MODERN IDEAS OF ELOQUENCE. 599 

favor of the first, along with the general interest in Greek things. Even 
with this decision, however, the Romans were not wholly Hellenized ; 
not every one who wishes can become a Greek, and it was impossible 
for the Romans to acquire by effort all that their happier models had 
by nature. What is the property of only a small class — as was the case 
with Roman eloquence, that belonged only to a few trained patricians — 
can never rival that which is a part of the whole life of an eager peo- 
ple. To be sure, modern art and letters rest on a different notion, but 
it is perhaps safe to say that these owe their greatest glory to the ex- 
ceptions from the conventional rule. The Roman Senate demanded 
something very unlike that which was required by the Athenian pop- 
ulace : a quality, namely, that the Romans themselves called gravztas, 
a sort of aristocratic dignity, similar to the remote formality which has 
buried much of the eloquence of the last century under thick dust. In 
books of so-called British eloquence, and in the American speeches, 
familiar to boyhood, this quality is prominent. We all know the 
majestic style, echoes of it still survive in the speeches uttered on 
Commencement Day by men who have ceased even to think them- 
selves young ; we all know the florid, pompous phraseology, — not un- 
like a layer of polished, colored marble — the artificially constructed 
sentences, the sonorous paragraphs. All these have in their day done 
good work, but their time is past. 

This form of eloquence drew its life not merely from the study and 
deliberate imitation of Roman models, although their influence, like 
that of all the branches of Roman literature, was very great, but also 
in good measure from the reappearance of similar conditions in modern 
times, one aristocracy being very much like another, all being slaves 
of similar conventionalities. Eloquence dies hard, but it is none the 
less mortal ; and its pomp and majesty will disappear just as the dis- 
tinctive traits of the etiquette, the poetry, and the dress of the last 
century have disappeared. Rigid formalities of fashion survive only 
in a few ceremonials of courts ; the artificiality which compelled the 
poet to call a gun, a deadly tube (even Wordsworth began with this) has 
wholly vanished along with the wig which gave the crowning touch 
to the absence of nature. Similar unrealities are yet found at times 
in modern oratory, because practically oratory is nearly extinct, and 
old fashions survive in out-of-the-way corners and very great and rare 
ceremonies. Now, the men who have anything to say, say it with 
little conscious striving after eloquence: Prince Bismarck is perhaps a 
sufficiently prominent example of a powerful and unconventional 
speaker, and the reader will recall others in England and America who 
have abandoned the old-fashioned declamation in favor of more intel- 
ligible methods. Every change in the direction of simplicity is away 



600 THE EARLY ORATORS AND /SOCRATES. 

from the Romans and leads infallibly towards the Greeks, not neces- 
sarily to copying them, but to the reproduction, with greater or less 
success, of somewhat similar results, for Greek eloquence may be partly 
defined as that which is not Roman ; that is to say, what is not 
artificial, not unreal, not perfervid, but what is direct, simple, and 
genuine. 

This definition is certainly more complex than it may at first appear, 
for real simplicity is only to be acquired with extreme difficulty. A 
long training is required to enable any one to stand easily on a plat- 
form before the eyes of a multitude, and to put an argument in the 
most convincing way, to make any smooth statement in writing in 
solitude, is shown by abundant testimony to be at least rare of attain- 
ment. Certainly Greek eloquence was not at all of the nature of 
artless prattle, and the appearance of artlessness was obtained only by 
the exercise of the most unwearying art. In this respect Greek oratory 
stands alone and very distinctly different from modern oratory, for at 
the present time it is regarded much more as a mere tool than seriously 
as one of the fine arts. Many causes contribute to this result, the 
principal one of which we may take to be the general indifference of 
the public to delicacy and subtlety of treatment. In comparison with 
the Greeks, who were a race of artists, modern people form a race of 
mechanics who lack the sensitiveness and delicacy of that wonderful 
nation. Our architecture, our amusements, our pleasures, all prove 
this statement, which is often flung in our faces by angry teachers. 
For the Greeks, on the other hand, good speaking was unmistakably 
a fine art. Its importance, which has been much diminished in these 
later times, by the fact that we read when they listened, was then very 
great ; public speaking was almost the sole means that any man had 
for communicating with his fellows. Ambassadors argued before a 
foreign public, all civic and municipal affairs were transacted by word 
of mouth, and thus constant practice kept continually polished a taste 
which was already delicate. Yet, not all the Greeks shared in this 
gift ; it was Athens alone that produced the greatest orators. And 
even here their high position was not attained at once, without an 
effort ; for, whatever enthusiasts may say, not even at Athens did the 
impossible happen. The form of government adopted by that city 
especially encouraged the pursuit of oratory, and its general artistic 
and literary interests greatly forwarded it ; so that, as Cicero says in 
his Brutus, " this art was not the common property of all Greece, but 
belonged to Athens alone. Who has ever heard of Argive, Corinthian, 
or Theban orators? And I have never heard of a single orator among 
the Lacedaemonians." Of the earlier Athenian orators we have at the 
best only the unliteral reports of Thucydides, and of some not even 



ORIGINS OF GREEK ORATORS. 60 1 

this, and apparently what first distinguished them was great ingenuity, 
boldness of design, and abundant energy, rather than the art which we 
see gradually growing as time went on. In this respect Pericles, if 
we follow the opinion of antiquity, excelled his predecessors, and what 
they praised in him was distinctly the acuteness, fullness, and intel- 
ligence of his thoughts. It was after him that the art of oratory 
began to appear. 

As Mr. Jebb says in his Attic Orators, "the intellectual turning- 
point came when poetry ceased to have a sway of which the exclusive- 
ness rested on the presumption that no thought can be expressed 
artistically which is not expressed metrically." The rise of prose 
occurred with the general awakening of manifold intellectual interest 
which accompanied the Persian wars. Then the Greek mind broke 
away from its earlier medievalism with the consciousness of the 
security of its national existence against barbarian force. Athens led 
in the advance and speedily acquired all that was best in the new 
spirit. Fortunately, as an Ionian city, it possessed the rich intellectual 
qualities of that brilliant race, already renowned in the history of cul- 
ture, and its hospitality to intellectual interests attracted leading men 
from every quarter where the Greek tongue was spoken. It will be 
noticed that many came from other cities, but it was Athens that they 
made their adopted home. 

II. 

The new education busied itself particularly with artistic prose, and 
the most important manifestation of this novelty was in the art of 
speaking. Those who taught it were known as Sophists, teachers of 
sophia, wisdom, and their subsequent influence on Greek culture can 
hardly be overrated. Yet that it has been overrated, many would be 
willing to affirm, for besides teaching the Greeks how to argue, they 
left their memory as a subject for the unending discussion of posterity. 
There are men who find the Sophists a sufficient cause for the future 
changes of Greece, and behold in them and their teachings a satis- 
factory explanation for the enfeeblement of private and public virtue. 
If this view is the correct one, the Sophist certainly managed to waste 
one of the most magnificent opportunities that teachers ever enjoyed. 
It is hard to suppose that they deliberately decided to overthrow the 
welfare of the state, and if we examine the charges brought against 
them, it is not easy to see how their methods could have produced such 
miserable consequences. The Sophists were, in fact, men who brought 
to an eager public new information regarding science, and who pre- 
tended to train young men to think, speak, and act as became Athenian 



602 THE EARLY ORATORS AND /SOCRATES. 

citizens. The principal accusation made against them is that they 
imparted their knowledge for hire. Certainly the world has seen 
darker crimes than this, and it certainly savors of hypocrisy for one 
who teaches or writes in order to support himself to denounce as a 
crime what he knows is only legitimate prudence. That these men 
taught only quibbles it is impossible to suppose ; even if they had 
done so, and the whole Athenian public had so far lost the control of 
their intelligence which is commonly adjudged to have been at least 
respectable, it is a wide leap to affirming that these caused the ruin 
of the state ; they may well, however, have caused the ruin of the 
quibblers. 

In fact, however, it is unfair to throw the blame for the subsequent 
loss of Athenian superiority on any one class of the citizens, and es- 
pecially to those whose aim it undoubtedly was to prepare men for 
their most important duties. Even if they were unwise in their 
methods, it is hard to blame the excellence of their intentions, for 
their design was to teach their pupils the proper conduct of political 
life. For this nothing was more important than the power of discuss- 
ing the various questions that came up for decision ; the citizens pos- 
sessed immediate control of public affairs, and nothing was more de- 
sirable than that questions should be presented to them lucidly and 
eloquently. Since it was necessary that every course of action should 
be presented to the citizens for their judgment, it is evident that men 
would naturally seek the best means of commending such propositions 
as they thought wise with all the aid that eloquence could inspire. 
No other course was possible ; hence condemnation is idle, for the in- 
evitable deserves neither praise nor blame. Doubtless the power of 
eloquence was exaggerated by its professors, who saw in the few 
branches of the education that they taught all the good that train- 
ing can give, but while its limitations are very clear to us, we must 
remember how few at that time were the subjects in which instruction 
could be given, and thus understand the excessive importance ascribed 
to rhetoric. It may serve to remind us of what we should always 
bear in mind, the almost exclusively rhetorical character of Greek 
literature. 

A comparison of the intellectual excitement of the period with that 
which accompanied the revival of letters in modern days may not be 
wholly unprofitable, in spite of the obvious danger of reading into one 
of the parts of the comparison what really belongs only to the other. 
It is possible to evade this peril by noticing simply one important 
agreement, and that is the effort made at both epochs to attain a new 
and impressive method of expression. At the Renaissance this move- 
ment was most marked, and the whole growth of modern literature as 



CONSERVATIVE OPPOSITION TO SCIENTIFIC EDUCATION. 603 

an art dates from the time when classic literature was taken as the 
sole model. In a similar way the upheaval of Greece after the Per- 
sian wars was accompanied by an endeavor to acquire a new mode of 
utterance, and it was the Sophists, with their rare graces, who held the 
place afterward occupied by the Humanists. They brought rule and 
lesson into a field that had previously been comparatively uncultivated, 
and substituted formality in the place of freedom or lawlessness. The 
command of style became necessary for every writer as the token of 
his allegiance to the new spirit, and in both cases a complicated 
method of utterance succeeded to a simple one, and men's attention 
was mainly directed rather to how a thing was said than to what was 
said. 

To call the resemblance a mere chance coincidence is unwise ; it is 
certainly more discreet to find the two sets of facts the results of sim- 
ilar causes, and to see that a general necessity of improving expression 
is an essential part of intellectual change. If the new authority of the 
Sophists had only this ground, they deserve to be acquitted of causing 
the subsequent overthrow of Greek freedom. Elegance of style is not 
so efficacious as that charge would imply, and in fact it is in this case 
nothing more than a sign of great upheaval, when every one's aim was 
to secure a form of utterance that should match the new dignity and 
scope of human thought. It was not the only time in the history of 
the world that the form has seemed most essential, or that undue 
blame has followed extravagant praise. 

Every important change in education is sure of opposition from con- 
servatives. The decay of scholasticism appeared a serious blow in the 
eyes of many who regarded it as the fountain of wisdom, and even now 
there are very many teachers of high repute who look upon any ten- 
dency in favor of scientific instruction as but pernicious degradation 
of youthful intelligence. The sneer of Aristophanes with regard to 
the length of a flea's jump still finds an echo in the hearts of college 
presidents who would like to confine modern thought in the narrow 
bounds that were deemed sufficient before science existed ; and from 
their denunciations enough could be gathered to prove that science 
was as dangerous a foe to modern progress as Sophistics was ever held 
to be to the ancient. Yet that the statements of the Sophists were 
always wise is as unlikely as that all modern scientific hypotheses are 
infallibly accurate. Socrates himself denounced the study of physics 
as a wicked waste of opportunity in comparison with the investigation 
of ethical questions, and in the early applications of logic and the laws 
of probability we find much that the world properly regards as child- 
ish quibbling. That it was childish is very true and of course inevi- 
table, for those who are laying the foundations of a new science are 



604 THE EARLY ORATORS AND /SOCRATES. 

exactly in the condition of children beginning their studies. The only 
unpardonable childishness is the habit, natural though it be, of laugh- 
ing at earlier blunders. 

Of the philosophical and physical innovations there will be occasion 
to speak later ; in oratory we fail to find anything which the world 
has agreed to call degeneracy. The new instruction in this old art 
came broadly from two quarters — from Ionian Hellas a more general 
culture ; and from Sicily, dialectic training. From wherever they 
came, they were welcomed most warmly; the arrival in any city of 
one of the great Sophists was regarded as an occasion of special re- 
joicing, and they had abundant opportunity for indulging in their 
favorite crime of charging for their instruction. The names of the first 
Sophists have been handed down to us along with many tributes of 
gratitude for their services in behalf of culture. Among the earliest 
of these was Protagoras of Abdera, who came to Athens when about 
forty years old, in the year 444 B.C., and gave instruction in the proper 
use of language, and also in the conduct of an argument. Hippias of 
Elis taught many subjects of general interest, physics, astronomy, and 
learned investigations of many kinds, touching in their turn upon 
questions of grammar and prosody. Prodicus of Keos investigated the 
exact meanings of words with a care previously unknown. What we 
know of the rest of his work is certainly not of an inflammatory or 
dangerous nature ; the choice of Hercules between vice and virtue is 
quoted by Xenophon in his Memorabilia as an allegory narrated by 
Prodicus. Euripides and Isocrates are said to have been pupils of his. 

III. 

In Sicily the art of dialectic had grown up under congenial condi- 
tions. We have seen how much comedy drew from that island ; and the 
same quick-witted vivacity that gave life to that amusement made it- 
self felt in the early growth of serious prose. Syracuse and Athens had 
passed through very similar political experiences ; both cities had seen 
the rule of an aristocracy, succeeded by a tyranny, which was itself 
replaced by a democracy. In the western city, as we have seen, the 
tyrants had encouraged literature, and the resemblance of the tastes 
of its inhabitants to those of the Athenians was often noted by ancient 
writers. The material prosperity and equivalent political position of 
both cities do in fact almost imply a wider similarity. The active 
trade of Sicily and the confusion that followed the dynastic changes 
gave an opportunity for rhetorical development which soon made its 
way to Athens. The establishment of the art of rhetoric is ascribed 
to Corax of Syracuse, who prepared a set of rules for forensic speak- 



THE RHETORIC OF GORGIAS AND HIS FOLLOWERS. 605 

ing, to which is due the further credit of being the first theoretical 
Greek book on any branch of art. Of its contents it is only known 
that it held rules for the division of a speech into five parts : the in- 
troduction, narrative, arguments, subsidiary remarks, and peroration. 
The introduction was to contain such remarks as should serve to put 
the listeners in good humor, and among the arguments that of gen- 
eral probability was commended. Thus, if a weak man is accused of 
an assault, he can point out the obvious unlikelihood ; while a strong 
man, in such a case, would point out the unlikelihood of his com- 
mitting the offense when the presumption against him was so strong. 
We are evidently studying the infancy of the art. 

Among his pupils were Tisias and Empedocles, both of whom 
acquired fame as orators and teachers of oratory, but the most cele- 
brated was Gorgias, born about 485 B.C., at Leontini, in Sicily. He 
was chosen by his fellow-townsmen to head an embassy that was sent 
to Athens in 427 B.C., to ask aid in their war with Syracuse. The 
impression that he made was very great ; for he was a master of a 
form of prose that was new to their ears. The possession of a certain 
definite style was the most marked thing in the rhetoric of Gorgias ; 
everything else he appears to have disregarded, but to Greek prose he 
gave a distinctive form. Only a fragment of this is left, but it is 
enough, when added to the descriptions of his traits that are to be 
found in later writers, to make it clear that he modelled his prose upon 
the current style of poetry, as Aristotle said in his Rhetoric. He used 
poetical words ; he formed compounds with all the freedom of a lyric 
or dithyrambic poet, and, more than this, he gave his sentences a dis- 
tinct rhythmical form, with the different clauses balancing one another, 
so that the whole effect upon the hearer was of a new and delightful 
art, not verse, and still less the language of common life. His devices 
were most subtle : sentences were made of equal length, they were 
given a similar form, the same sounds were echoed in other words at 
the end or turning-point of the corresponding phrases, and at once 
Greek prose received new life. How curiously this new style matched 
the poetry cannot of course be made clear in any translation ; but we 
can readily infer its probability from a glance at English prose. Not 
only, as the late Mark Pattison has pointed out, is the stanza, as 
employed by Spenser, the analogue of the prose sentence of Hooker, 
Jeremy Taylor, or Milton, but the brief couplet of Pope corresponds 
to the neat, compact prose sentences of his contemporaries. Going 
further back to the early appearance of artistic prose among the 
Elizabethan Euphuists, we may describe it as something not wholly 
unlike the style of Gorgias, infinitely cruder and harsher, yet dis- 
tinguished by the same very distinct cadences and balancing, with 



606 THE EARLY ORATORS AND /SOCRATES. 

alliteration marking the time as distinctly as the beat of the foot. Its 
artifices corresponded closely to those common in the verse of the 
period with its abundant antitheses and profuse alliteration: such, for 
example, as are to be found in Surrey's Description of Spring: 

" The soote season, that bud and bloom furth brings, 
With green hath clad the hill and eke the vale, 
The nightingale with feathers new she sings ; 
The turtle to her mate hath told her tale. 
Summer is come, for every spray now springs, 
The hart hath hung his old head on the pale ; ' 
The buck in brake his winter coat he flings ; 
The fishes flete with new-repaired scale ; 
The adder all her slough away she slings ; 
The swift swallow pursueth the flies smale ; " etc. 

Awkward and numb as these lines are with their clumsy imitation 
of Petrarch's grace, it is yet possible to trace some of the qualities of 
what, as Euphuism, Marianism, or Gongorism, prevailed over the whole 
of Europe, in these more than obvious alliterations. Not all its cha- 
racteristics are to be found in these few lines, for Euphuism was marked 
by much more copious antithesis, and perpetual balancing of phrases, 
assonances, and other delights of the ear ; it was with those aids that 
the early formal prose endeavored to make its way as a companion 
of the carefully constructed verse which abounded with the artificial 
charms of all mediaeval art. In Petrarch we find many instances of 
his imitation of the devices of the Provencal poets, and what he did 
became a model for succeeding writers of verse. In order to compete 
with this formidable rival, prose had to show that it was no less rich 
in artifice, — hence we find it arraying itself with all sorts of fantastic 
trickeries and refinements. These it borrowed from many diverse 
sources, of which this mediaeval alliteration was but one ; the cunning 
inventions of Spanish writers were of especial influence in the forma- 
tion of Euphuism, but in all the forms that the single spirit assumed 
we may recognize the attempt to make a prose corresponding to the 
verse, and to let a careful construction closely imitate the effect of 
rhyme. In Euphuism this result was attained by curious employment 
of antithesis and balance of phrases, as in these lines : " And if I were 
as able to perswade thee to patience, as thou wert desirous to exhort 
me to pietie, or as wise to comfort thee in thine age, as thou willing to 
instruct me in my youth ? thou shouldst now with lesse griefe endure 
thy late losse, and with little care leade thy aged life. Thou weepest 
for the death of thy daughter, and I laugh at the folly of the father, 
for greater varietie is there in the minde of the mourner, than bitter- 
nesse in the death of the deceased," etc., etc. This bears a curious 
resemblance to the few bits that we have left of the writing of Gorgias, 



RESEMBLANCE BETWEEN SOPHISTICS AND EUPHUISM. 



607 



and it is interesting to notice that in both ancient and modern times 
formal prose began with arts not unlike those that ruled the poetry. 
The resemblance between the Sicilian sophist and Lily is very close : 
similar conditions produced similar results. 

It is to be remembered, too, that the introduction of the Egyptian 
papyrus furnished writers with a cheap and convenient material for the 



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BOOKCASE AND WRITING MATERIALS. 



reception and preservation of writing, and that thus an opportunity 
was offered for a form of literature that did not depend on the memory 
for preservation and transmission. We are told that Polycrates of 
Samos and Peisistratus of Athens were the first to form libraries, but 
it is probable that these collections were long beyond the means of 
private citizens, because it is not till much later that we hear of the 



6o8 THE EARLY ORATORS AND /SOCRATES. 

books gathered by Euripides. Only then, doubtless, had they become 
cheap enough for more modest purses, and a reference of Aristophanes 
in the Frogs indicates an abundance of books towards the end of the 
Peloponnesian war. 

IV. 

In Greece the polish that was given to prose, and that made itself 
felt immediately in the oratory, was much admired, and it spread 
rapidly among those who were interested in the new learning. We 
find Plato, when he introduced Agathon, the tragedian, into his Sym- 
posium, lets him talk quite in the manner of Gorgias ; and we hear 
that the rhetorician's pupils, Polus and Alcidamas, outdid their master 
in affectation and extravagant refinement. The first of the orators to 
combine the recently introduced rhetoric with the accustomed elo- 
quence was Antiphon, in the deme of Rhamnus in Attica, who was born 
about 480 B.C., who was the first in time of the ten great Attic orators. 
Thucydides in his history speaks of him in terms of warm praise as 
" a man second to none of the Athenians of his day in respect of 
virtue, who had proved himself most able to devise measures and to 
express his views ; and who, though he did not come forward in the 
assembly of the people, nor, when he could help it, in any other scene 
of public debate, but was eyed with suspicion by the populace on 
account of his reputation for cleverness, yet was most competent of 
all to help those engaged in a controversy, whether in a court of justice 
or before a popular assembly. And he, too, when the Four Hundred 
had fallen, and was ill-treated, seems to me to have made the best 
defense of all men up to my time, when tried for his life on the charge 
of having aided in establishing this government." His speech, how- 
ever, did not save him, and in 41 1 B.C. he was put to death, his property 
was confiscated, and his descendants were deprived of citizenship. 
Unfortunately, this speech which Thucydides praises so highly has 
not come down to us, yet we have fifteen orations that have been 
ascribed to him ; three of which deal with actual legal cases, while the 
others are but rhetorical exercises concerning imaginary law-suits. Of 
the three which we call the sincere ones, it is to be remembered that 
they were composed for the use of other people, a practice which may 
be regarded as equivalent to the modern custom of employing a lawyer 
for the defense of the citizen's legal rights. It is easy to imagine the 
surprise with which the antagonist who trusted to his own powers 
must have heard his antagonist reciting an ingenious oration composed 
by this master of the art. The success of this innovation may be 
readily conjectured, and it is proved by the existence of what may be 



COMPARISON OF AN TIP HON AND THUCYDIDES. 609 

called the fictitious orations that were designed for the training of 
pupils. It is known that Antiphon gave instruction in rhetoric, and 
it was doubtless for the use of his pupils that he prepared a manual of 
the art. These speeches, written for practice after the fashion set by 
Protagoras and Gorgias, were most ingenious expositions of opposing 
arguments, and by the fact that they appeared as tetralogies, with two 
speeches on each side, preserved them from becoming mere orations 
for the demolition of men of straw. Antiphon was always arguing 
against a good pleader. All the orations, the real as well as the 
fictitious ones, deal with murder-cases. Not all the arguments em- 
ployed would be of weight in a modern court-room, but what deter- 
mines the value of an argument is its suitability to the tribunal sitting 
in judgment, and at Athens at this time distinctions were drawn 
between different kinds of guilt after a fashion now extinct. The 
style of Antiphon is full of interest, and in some respects it bears a 
likeness to that of Thucydides. The two men are the most important 
representatives of what is called the austere style, which was distin- 
guished from the smooth and middle styles, represented by Isocrates 
and Demosthenes, respectively, which were the divisions of the new 
rhetoric. The likeness between the famous historian and the orator 
lies, for one thing, in a similar effort to give adequate expression to 
subtle thought. Thucydides frequently employs the persistent an- 
tithesis that we find in Antiphon, the continual subtle division of a 
thought into all its meanings and connotations, which is what Antiphon 
also employs, and both have a rugged, sturdy quality that shows that 
they were exposed to the same influences. Both exhibit similar 
restrained vehemence, and it is in this dignity and self-control that 
Antiphon, when we compare him with the later orators, holds to them 
a position not unlike that which ^Eschylus holds in relation to his 
successors. 

Of Andocides, the next in the list of ten, there is less to be said, 
for his importance is greater to history than to the study of liter- 
ature. He was curiously connected with the mutilation of the Hermes, 
an event that agitated Athens just before the sailing of the Sicilian 
expedition. For guilt in this affair, which, in connection with the prof- 
anation of the Eleusinian mysteries, had all the horror of a Nihilistic 
outbreak, he was compelled to leave Athens. He supported himself 
during his banishment by carrying on business, and at length returned 
under a general amnesty. He appears to have held positions of im- 
portance, for he was sent to Sparta to negotiate concerning peace. 
His subsequent career is uncertain. One story says that he was again 
banished, which would give roundness to the general melancholy of 
his career, but this is mercifully doubted. But three speeches of his 



610 THE EARLY ORATORS AND I SOCRATES. 

are left : one with regard to this very peace, which is wise and sensible. 
Another, on his return, was intended to aid him in procuring the re- 
moval of certain disabilities under which he lay. The third, on the 
Mysteries, relates to the accusation brought against him, of profaning 
those holy rites. A fourth, against Alcibiades, is regarded as ungen- 
uine. The speeches ascribed to him are smooth and simple, with no 
excess of ornament or of novelty. He is not a man who instinctively 
occurs to the mind of any one who is thinking of the masters of 
oratory. 

Lysias was a man of a different sort, whose influence on oratory was 
very great. When poetry and sculpture were fading away with the 
overthrow of the Athenian power, the mastery of prose took their 
place and reached its highest development. To the attainment of 
this result Lysias contributed in a very marked degree. The some- 
what formal style of the early oratory was modified by him into a 
vivid, simpler picturesqueness that bore closer resemblance to the lan- 
guage of common speech. In his hands oratory ceased to be some- 
thing remote and solemn, it became part of human life, and it is per- 
haps instructive to notice that it lost none of its power by this 
change. 

The exact date of the birth of Lysias is uncertain ; it was probably 
about the year 459 B.C. He was the son of Cephalos, a Syracusan who 
settled at Athens on the invitation of Pericles, and here Lysias was 
born. When fifteen years old, he went to Thurii, in Magna Graecia, with 
his eldest brother, and there it is said that he studied rhetoric under 
Tisias, already mentioned as the pupil of Corax. When the Athenian 
expedition set out against Sicily, he with others was charged with At- 
ticising, and compelled to return to Athens. This was in 412 B.C. The 
next few years he passed there without interruption, possibly continu- 
ing his rhetorical studies and composing some of the artificial pieces 
included among his works ; in 404 B.C., however, his wealth brought him 
under the ill-will of the Thirty, he was robbed of his property, and 
with difficulty escaped secretly to Megara. His brother was put to 
death. Lysias remained in exile for about a year, until the overthrow 
of the Thirty, when he returned to Athens, and was granted citizen- 
ship there. From this time, 403 B.C., until 380, he was busily employed 
as a writer of speeches for the use of others in the courts of law. Of 
these he is said to have composed no less than two hundred, more 
than twice the number ascribed to any other Attic orator. A story 
runs that he composed a defense for Socrates at his trial in 399 B.C., but 
that the philosopher declined to use it. The only one that he wrote for 
his own use was the oration against Eratosthenes, one of the detested 
Thirty Tyrants and the murderer of his brother Polemarchus. This is 



LYSIAS—HIS ORATION AGAINST ERATOSTHENES. 611 

one of the great speeches of antiquity, not only for the calm earnest- 
ness with which Lysias recites his own personal grievances against a 
cruel despot, when he holds his hand and lets the simplest narration 
of facts fill the hearer with indignation, and then for the seriousness 
and warmth of his denunciation of a political system under which such 
injustice was possible. Here are, his concluding words, appealing first 
to those who had remained at Athens under the oligarchy, and then 
to the democratic exiles who had held the Peiraeus: 

I wish, before I go down, to recall a few things to the recollection of 
both parties, the party of the town and the party of the Peiraeus ; in order 
that, in passing sentence, you may have before you as warnings the calam- 
ities which have come upon you through these men. 

And you, first, of the town — reflect that under their iron rule you were 
forced to wage with brothers, with sons, with citizens a war of such a sort 
that, having been vanquished, you are the equals of the conquerors, whereas, 
had you conquered, you would have been the slaves of the tyrants. They 
would have gained wealth for their own houses from the administration; you 
have impoverished yours in the war with one another ; for they did not 
deign that you should thrive along with them, though they forced you to be- 
come odious in their company ; such being their consummate arrogance 
that, instead of seeking to win your loyalty by giving you partnership in their 
prizes, they fancied themselves friendly if they allowed you a share in their 
dishonours. Now, therefore, that you are in security, take vengeance to the 
utmost of your power both for yourselves and for the men of the Peiraeus ; 
reflecting that these men, villains that they are, were your masters, but that 
now good men are your fellow-citizens, — your fellow-soldiers against the 
enemy, your fellow-counsellors in the interest of the state ; remembering, too, 
those allies whom these men posted on the Acropolis as sentinels over their 
despotism and your servitude. To you — though much more might be said — 
I say this only. 

But you of the Peiraeus — think, in the first place, of your arms — think 
how, after fighting many a battle on foreign soil, you were stripped of those 
arms, not by the enemy, but by these men in time of peace ; think, next, how 
you were warned by public criers from the city bequeathed to you by your 
fathers, and how your surrender was demanded of the cities in which you 
were exiles. Resent these things as you resented them in banishment ; and 
recollect, at the same time, the other evils that you have suffered at their 
hands ; — how some were snatched out of the market-place or from temples 
and put to a violent death ; how others were torn from children, parents, or 
wife, and forced to become their own murderers, nor allowed the common 
decencies of burial, by men who believed their own empire to be surer than 
the vengeance from on high. 

And you, the remnant who escaped death, after perils in many places, after 
wanderings to many cities and expulsion from all, beggared of the necessa- 
ries of life, parted from children, left in a fatherland which was hostile or in 
the land of strangers, came through many obstacles to the Peiraeus. Dan- 
gers many and great confronted you ; but you proved yourselves brave men; 
you freed some, you restored others to their country. 

Had you been unfortunate and missed those aims, you yourselves would 
now be exiles, in fear of suffering what you suffered before. Owing to the 



6l2 



THE EARLY ORATORS AND /SOCRATES. 



character of these men, neither temples nor altars, which even in the sight 
of evil-doers have a protecting virtue, would have availed you against 
wrong ; — while those of your children who are here would have been en- 
during the outrages of these men, and those who are in a foreign land, in 
the absence of all succour, would, for the smallest debt, have been enslaved. 
I do not wish, however, to speak of what might have been, seeing that 
what these man have done is beyond my power to tell; and indeed it is a task 
not for one accuser or for two, but for a host. 

Yet is my indignation perfect for the temples which these men bartered 
away or defiled by entering them ; for the city which they humbled ; for the 
arsenals which they dismantled ; for the dead, whom you, since you could 
not rescue them alive, must vindicate in their death. And I think that they 
are listening to us, and will be aware of you when you give your verdict, 

deeming that such as absolve these men 
have passed sentence upon them, and that 
such as exact retribution from these have 
taken vengeance in their names. 

I will cease accusing. You have heard, 
seen, suffered : you have them : judge. 

In this extract, as in almost all of the 
thirty-four speeches that have come 
down to us either complete or in large 
fragments, it is easy to notice the ab- 
sence of exaggeration which forms one 
of the most characteristic traits of Ly- 
sias. Instead of exaggerating he re- 
strains himself, and by the delicacy of 
his touch he won great praise from the 
critics of both Greece and Rome. Cicero 
frequently speaks of him, and always 
with the highest praise. He commends 
his elegance and refinement, and yet 
without denying him vigor ; he says 
lysias. that while it is doubtful whether Lysias 

could ever have reached the heights of 
Demosthenes, he was almost a second Demosthenes, or, what is the 
same thing, almost a perfect orator. All who mention him call especial 
attention to the marvelous grace and accuracy of his style, a point con- 
cerning which it is not easy for us to form an independent opinion. Yet 
we may see that his language was plain and eminently persuasive, that 
he helped to save oratory from sinking beneath excess of ornament 
and convention, and that his exquisite taste hastened the development 
of the purest eloquence. 

His later speeches were mostly written for others, who were contes- 
tants in public or private law-suits, and in them we notice the same 




W 



METHOD OF LYSIAS— OPINIONS OF HIS CONTEMPORARIES. 613 

sober but convincing art. Fragments of two public orations remain 
bearing his name, one uttered at the Olympic festival in 388 B.C. ; the 
other is a funeral oration over Athenians who had been sent to sup- 
port Corinth, but its genuineness is doubted. Ancient critics were 
cooler in their praise of the set orations of Lysias. 

In the Phaedrus of Plato we find Socrates ridiculing what pretends 
to be an extract from one of the minor works of Lysias, the genuine- 
ness of which is doubted by many competent authorities, and express- 
ing some contempt for the art of that rhetorician, whom he places 
much lower than Isocrates, a young follower of Socrates, for whose 
future the highest hopes are expressed. The writing of Lysias that is 
here laughed at is a discussion on love, and is certainly not a fair rep- 
resentative of his best work, and although Socrates applauds his polish 
and clearness, he is amply justified in affirming that 

"Nobler far is the serious pursuit of the dialectician, who finds a congenial 
soil, and there with knowledge engrafts and sows words which are able to 
help themselves and him who planted them, and are not unfruitful, but have 
in them seeds which may bear fruit in other natures nurtured in other ways 
— making the seed everlasting, and the possessors happy to the utmost ex- 
tent of human happiness." 

To be sure, Socrates says that oratory depends much more on the 
natural genius of the speaker than on any rules, yet he blames Lysias 
for seeming to write off freely just what came into his head. 

If Plato blamed Lysias justly for his early writings, he was but a false 
prophet concerning Isocrates, for however full of promise that orator 
may have appeared in his youth, in his later years he certainly did not 
incline in the direction of greater naturalness. He was born in 436 B.C., 
more than twenty years after Lysias, at Athens ; his philosophical 
studies, by which apparently Socrates was flattered, did not prevent 
him from making eloquence the chief occupation of his life. He helped 
to give it, however, a new direction toward questions of statesman- 
ship, instead of confining it, as his predecessors had been inclined to 
do, to the narrower limits of the courts. Lysias had, however, pre- 
ceded him in a fashion already established by the detested Sophists, 
who used to take advantage of the assemblage of citizens at the great 
games from all quarters of Greece, to deliver orations which should 
illustrate the excellence of the speakers in their favorite art, as well as 
convey sound political instruction. Of Gorgias we are told that 

" His speech at Olympia dealt with the largest of political questions. See- 
ing Greece torn by faction, he became a counsellor of concord, seeking to 
turn the Greeks against the barbarians, and advising them to take for the 
prizes of their arms not each other's cities, but the land of the barbarians." 



614 



THE EARLY ORATORS AND I SOCRATES. 



He found admirers, too, for at Delphi there stood his golden statue 
in the temple where he had " thundered his Pythian speech from the 
altar." Hippias had also spoken at Olympia. When Lysias pro- 
nounced his oration, he gave sound advice to his listeners, urging them 
to unite against the dangers that threatened them from the East and 
from Sicily, and it was to enforce the same wise lesson that Isocrates pro- 
nounced his famous Panegyric in 380 B.C. That the oration was actu- 
ally delivered by Isocrates is more than doubtful, because lack of voice 
and a certain shyness prevented him from speaking in public, but the 

speech was published as a sort of 
political pamphlet to discuss the ex- 
isting state of affairs. He begins by 
recommending Athens and Sparta 
to set aside their long-lived jealousies, 
and although Sparta is at present the 
more powerful, yet some compromise 
is advisable in view of the historical 
glory of its rival ; the two united 
should begin a war against Persia, 
their old and relentless foe. His elo- 
quence failed, however, to accomplish 
any practical result ; the future vic- 
tories of Greece were wrought by the 
action of the keen intelligence of that 
country, not by force of arms. As 
Isocrates himself said in this oration : 

" Athens has so distanced the world in 

power of thought and speech that her 

disciples have become the teachers of 

all other men. She has brought it to 

pass that the name of Greece should be 

thought no longer a matter of race but a matter of intelligence ; and should 

be given to the participators in our culture rather than to the sharers of 

our common origin." 




ISOCRATES. 



The hopes which Isocrates expressed in this speech were not daunted 
by failure. For nearly forty years he sought for a leader who should 
guide Greece to victory, and he continually urged this remedy for her 
woes. He brought to the aid of his purpose a wonderful mastery of 
the oratorical art. His ideas, if few, were distinct, and he expressed 
them with wonderful skill. No one of the great orators was more suc- 
cessful in weaving a web of artificial grace, in achieving the mastery of 
a flawless style. As we have seen, he was regarded as the leading rep- 
resentative of what was called the middle style, which was character- 



REFINEMENT OF GREEK PROSE. 615 

ized by keen consciousness of the value of rhythm and harmony. He 
thus welded the earlier efforts of Gorgias and men like him with the 
work of the orators who had spoken before him. Yet while successful in 
what he aimed at, the result is cloying ; one too often inclines to notice 
his workmanship instead of being led by it insensibly to adherence to 
what he says, and it becomes in time a fatal objection to an artificial 
method, so that the reader admires the method rather than the work 
done. The result is that Isocrates is marking time, with astounding 
accuracy, to be sure, yet without advancing, while the other orators 
are marching forward. Yet this remark, though it applies to the final 
value of Isocrates as a man, in no way affects the importance of the 
final polish that he gave to Greek prose. He completed its gradual 
growth toward subtlety and refinement, leaving it a perfect instru- 
ment. Indirectly, too, these qualities of his style acted on Latin prose, 
and later his influence worked on modern prose, for at the time of the 
Renaissance, when men were impatient to find a new method of ex- 
pression to take the place of the aridities of mediaevalism, Isocrates was 
much read — fortunately for himself, his Greek was readily intelligible 
— and found admirers and imitators among men hungry for beauty 
and artificiality. 

It was not by his orations alone that Isocrates established his au- 
thority ; after writing speeches for the law courts for a few years, he 
abandoned that means of support, for which he ever after expressed 
considerable contempt, and founded a school for rhetorical and polit- 
ical instruction. This proved a great success ; he numbered among his 
pupils many illustrious names, and doubtless his instruction was one 
of the most important intellectual inspirations of the time. Mean- 
while he composed his orations, in which he was never tired of urging 
the need of Greek unity ; he commended the old democracy of Solon 
and the pristine virtue of that remote time, but such advice was of 
course without effect. Even eloquence could not bring back the days 
of Grecian glory. Isocrates lived until his ninety-eighth year, 388 B.C., 
and the story ran that on hearing the melancholy news of the defeat 
of the Greeks by Philip at Chaeroneia, he starved himself to death. 
Milton, it will be remembered, in his sonnet to the Lady Margaret 

Ley, says : 

" as that dishonest victory 
At Chaeroneia, fatal to liberty, 
Killed with report that old man eloquent." 

But this picturesque anecdote is generally doubted, for the battle was 
in fact the fulfillment of the aged orator's hopes that Greece should 
find a leader against Persia, and there survives a letter of his in which 
he expresses his content with the altered condition of affairs. 



616 THE EARLY ORATORS AND I SOCRATES. 

As has been already indicated, the orations of Isocrates deal with 
important questions of statesmanship, although with but little novelty 
in his advice ; what never fails him is the desire for artistic perfection. 
Out of the genuine works of his which were known to antiquity, 
twenty-one speeches and nine letters have come down to us, very 
nearly all. Fifteen of these discourses were composed for readers, and 
were of the nature of political pamphlets in oratorical form, like the 
Panegyrikos mentioned above ; this and two others, the Areopagitikos 
and the Panathena'i'kos, are the most famous. In the Areopagitikos 
he pleads in defense of the old democracy when license was not con- 
founded with freedom ; in the Panathenaic oration he defends himself 
from some of the accusations that " vulgar Sophists " had brought 
against him, and celebrates at some length the glory of Athens. It is 
certainly a marvelous production for a man over ninety years old, and 
is exceptional for the plainness of its style. Curious are the Busiris 
and the Encomium on Helen as examples of his purely perfunctory 
treatment of set subjects, like the exercises of the Sophists. By the 
side of these efforts he regarded writers of speeches for the courts, doll- 
makers in comparison with Pheidias, but possibly even the doll-makers 
would not have seen Athens overthrown with half the complacency of 
this artist in words, who survives after all simply as an accomplished 
rhetorician. 

What the reader will have noticed is the striking growth of artificial 
oratory among the Athenians during this period ; and the spread of 
this custom marks a wide contrast with the earlier literary sincerity. 
Doubtless the poets had sung imaginary woes with more attention to 
the form of expression than to the reality of their words, but in what 
has reached us we are struck by the apparent reality of the verse. 
From this time on we shall have frequent occasion to observe the 
growth of a quality in literature that is very remote from life. It is 
hard, however, to see how this unreality was to be avoided. Readiness 
and smoothness of speech were not to be acquired without practice, 
and it was only on imaginary cases that this could be had. Obviously 
men would be averse to intrusting the defense of their lives or their 
property to inexperienced advocates, and only by showing how well 
they could defend men of straw, could orators be chosen to defend 
men of flesh and blood. Teachers, too, had to give proof of the excel- 
lence of their method ; it was incumbent upon them to show how 
harmonious and rhythmical were the sentences that they could form, 
and as specimens of their skill they spoke on subjects that could 
offend no one. When it is remembered that the main work of the 
advocates was preparing speeches for the use of other people, it becomes 
evident that the capacity to assume emotions was a most desirable 



GROWING ARTIFICIALITY OF ORATORY. 617 

quality, so that he who was most eloquent about acknowledged trifles 
showed a superiority to those who betrayed less quick sympathy by 
responding only to more serious demands. 

The result is obvious: on one side, oratory improved from the con- 
stant practice which it received, but, on the other, there is to be 
noticed a distinct sacrifice of matter to form, a continual disposition 
to regard literature as an art, as something foreign to real life. Elo- 
quence, after attaining its greatest height when employed by Demos- 
thenes, sank into an elegant accomplishment, and being the principal 
object of intellectual interest, when the political life of Greece died it 
became a mere amusement, a sort of intellectual jugglery. Already 
in Isocrates we see eloquence dangerously near this condition, and the 
exercise of ingenuity and cleverness resting on a slender basis, for 
instead of being one flower of education, it was almost the whole of 
education for this race. In him we see a mind apparently almost 
equally divided about the relative importance of two members of a 
well-balanced period, and the proper course of statesmanship, and he 
shows in the bud the future development of all this oratory into a 
splitting of straws and the most approved form of literary trifling. 
Yet Isocrates must not bear too much odium for belonging to the 
losing side. That test would condemn Aristophanes, and Demosthenes 
himself would have to be denied our admiration if that were to be given 
only to success. Nothing is more unwise than the danger which besets 
an advocate of letting respect for one set of qualities blind him to 
another, and nothing is more common. Every one of the tragedians 
has suffered from it in turn, and it would be well to preserve the orators 
from a like fate, which after all gives us more insight into their com- 
mentators than into the men whom they may happen to discuss. 

The political advice that Isocrates gave was something that recom- 
mended itself to him as one who observed the incompetence of Sparta ; 
all his keen intellectual sympathies inclined him to set a high store on 
Athens, and he continually strove to establish a pan-Hellenic union in 
which that city should renew its former prominence. He endeavored 
to unite Greece against a common foe, and certainly he showed insight 
in detecting the weakness of Persia. By attacking that country he 
hoped that all the existing and destructive intestine jealousies might 
be welded into a harmonious spirit of conquest, and that Greece might 
become a mighty unit. So far his counsel was wise. The magnificent 
strength of Greece, as shown in its earlier wars with Persia, warranted 
him in making this effort, which was made only more desirable by the 
present distracted state of the country. What he failed to detect was 
the dangers threatening from the growth of the Macedonian power. 
Indeed, he was unconsciously a powerful ally of Philip ; with no 



6i8 THE EARLY ORATORS AND I SOCRATES. 

knowledge of what he was doing, like the great section of the Athenian 
populace whose mouthpiece he was, he was preparing for the Mace- 
donian supremacy when he urged his fellow-citizens not to strive for 
temporal power, but to content themselves with glory from the past 
and undeniable intellectual ascendancy in the future. He thus indi- 
cated what was to be the position of Athens in the period then open- 
ing, the spirit that survived when the material power of that city 
was gone, but its mind remained and controlled later civilizations. 
This disposition to lay aside all claim to temporal power is most clearly 
marked in the letter of Isocrates to Philip after the peace of 346 B.C., 
when that king had secured his position as champion of the Amphic- 
tyonic assembly. Here the orator urges Philip to put himself at the 
head of united Greece and to undertake his old hobby, namely, to 
overthrow the Persian empire and free the Asiatic Greeks. He accepts 
without a murmur the degradation of his country. 

As might be expected, this resignation of ancient glory was counter- 
balanced by a keen love of the undoubted literary superiority of 
Greece, and he was not unaware of the extent to which he had helped 
to further this. It was not, however, a single man whom we are 
studying, but one who expresses a momentous change in the Athenian 
people. The delight in letters that we observe in him was something 
more than a personal quality; it is not a mere vain old man whom we 
have before us, eloquent and conscious of his eloquence, with certain 
limited notions of political wisdom, but rather a picture of a large part 
of his contemporaries; that is his value as a representative. Just as a 
medical student does not need to dissect everybody to know human 
anatomy, so we may find in Isocrates the specimen of the majority of 
his citizens, just as Demosthenes is the vivid example of the impotent 
opposition. 

The excellence of his art is the very quality in which Athens was 
supreme, and his love for one is closely bound up with his love of the 
other. All the charm of letters awaits the student of his smooth and 
harmonious prose, at the same time that the pages expose the estab- 
lishment of literary art. We have seen hitherto abundant instances 
of the same tendency, in Menander and in Xenophon ; here the work 
is accomplished for oratory, and in the dullness of Isocrates's compre- 
hension of the perils that threatened Greece we may see a vivid 
instance of the fault that always threatens extreme prepossession in 
favor of literary form. And while Isocrates is significant as the fore- 
runner of the direction in which the Hellenic race was moving, his 
direct authority over later times can scarcely be exaggerated. The 
early growth of the art, of which he was perhaps the most brilliant 
example, is tolerably clear, and its subsequent history is almost with- 



QUALITIES OF THE ORATORY OF ISOCRATES— ISsEOS. 619 

out a cloud. Almost every literary accomplishment belonged to him ; 
he cultivated every flower of rhetoric, and it is an ungrateful world 
that now rends' this man whose faults are obvious, when it has learned 
from him the power of literary charm. But as he won all the fame 
that belonged to the period in which he lived, he now suffers for the 
deeds or rather for the words of a whole people. It must be remem- 
bered, however, that those who are attacking him are really assaulting 
artificial literature, and that literature becomes artificial when public 
life becomes stagnant. It is to the credit of Greece that when every- 
thing else failed them they held true to things of the intellect. 

Among the pupils of Isocrates was Isaeos, a native of Chalcis in 
Euboea, who lived in Athens from 420 B.C. till 348 B.C., and devoted him- 
self to the practice of the law, without mingling at all, as all his pre- 
decessors had done, in political questions. This rigid exercise of a 
profession and the abandonment of politics indicate the beginning of 
a change in Greek life. Henceforth the Athenians ceased being above 
all things citizens. Isaeos is said to have been a pupil of Isocrates, 
but his style bears much more likeness to that of Lysias, who, it will 
be remembered, was a leader in forensic cases. Sixty-four speeches, 
fifty of which were held to be genuine, are mentioned by ancient 
writers ; of these eleven and a large fragment of another have reached 
us, although fifty are said to have survived to the middle of the ninth 
century. All of these deal with law-cases, and most of them with 
questions of inheritance. While for many years they have been 
studied as examples of the greater influence of Lysias, tempered by 
that of Isocrates, they have for modern students of comparative juris- 
prudence distinct value for the light that they throw on the Athenian 
laws. Then, too, he has another most important claim on the reader's 
attention as the teacher of the greatest orator of Greece, and so of the 
world, namely, Demosthenes. Fortunately we have left much of the 
work of the predecessors of this wonderful man, enough at least to 
show us by what successive steps the Greek language grew up to the 
condition of a rich, fluent instrument, how the prose freed itself from 
awkwardnesses and at last acquired a full and varied harmony ; how 
the art of argument learned simplicity and vigor. It was when this 
perfection had been attained that the greatest orator spoke, and for- 
tunately for once in studying the success of a Greek master we do not 
have to conjecture the gradual growth of his art: we can trace it from 
one speaker to another, and thus get one more proof that every com- 
plex form of expression is the result of long experiment and not of 
sudden inspiration. 

In saying that among the Greeks oratory became one of the fine 
arts, more is implied than at first appears, and certainly a great dis- 



620 THE EARLY ORATORS AND I SOCRATES. 

tinction is noted between ancient and modern eloquence, for the 
changes that are now affecting public speaking are not at all in this 
direction. The modern orator has abandoned a style which is indi- 
cated if not precisely defined when it is called bombastic, but he is yet 
far from, and probably will never acquire, the wonderful complexity of 
the art as it delighted the Athenians. At present the ideal of the 
world is more nearly scientific than artistic perfection, which was the 
ideal of the Greeks, and the keen interest that that race took in the 
accomplishment of its aims has become subordinate to the importance 
of the aims themselves. The English-speaking races — and the Ger- 
mans show the same defect — lack the extreme sensitiveness to form 
that distinguished the Greeks. We try to atone for the dullness of 
our ears by devising a conventional formality which shall be observed, 
just as a conventional system of mourning at times suffices for an ex- 
pression of grief. To the Athenians, to the more cultivated Greeks in 
general, an oratorical contest was a source of enjoyment not unlike 
that which musical people know at a good concert. The proper use 
of language, the position and gestures of the orator, his pronunciation, 
accent, and tone of voice, were all, as it were, separate instruments 
producing a complete harmony to which we are deaf. Any one who 
will compare the coarse work tolerated in our theaters with the ex- 
quisite grace and dignity of the Theatre Frangais will understand the 
nature of the difference between the eloquence of Greece and that of 
other races, and the complexity of the art which grew up under the 
most refining care of Isocrates to be the mode of utterance for the last 
of the public-spirited citizens of Athens. If Isocrates could defend 
making two contradictory statements about the same thing by main- 
taining that his second account was well expressed and very oppor- 
tune, we may be prepared to find that Greek orations have as little of 
the quality of affidavits as do a poet's love-sonnets. The possibility 
of the substitution of fictitious embroidery in the place of facts indi- 
cates very clearly the constantly besetting danger of eloquence, 
whether in prose or rhyme, when it once becomes an art. This lax- 
ity — and Demosthenes himself furnishes instances of it — is the inevi- 
table result of extreme attention to mere effect, and without great 
care for effect artistic eloquence can not flourish. 

Yet while the artistic oratory of the Greeks runs the risk of paying 
for its vividness by inexactness, it yet shares with what we may call 
the scientific oratory of modern speakers in a healthy aversion to mock 
eloquence, to exaggerated declamation. In other words, the finest art 
will be the simplest, and Demosthenes will leave behind him the arti- 
ficiality of Isocrates as certainly as he will avoid the exaggerations of 
Roman oratory. This simplicity that he will attain through his mas- 



CHARACTERISTICS OF TRUE ELOQUENCE. 



621 



tery of method and the fervor of his spirit, is like the unrhetorical 
directness of a few modern speakers who agree with Pascal in thinking 
that true eloquence knows nothing of eloquence. The resemblance is 
like that between the physiology of the sense of hearing and the theory 
of music, or that which is beginning to be recognized, the physiology 
of the sense of sight and painting, or the gradual discovery of modern 
literature that there is nothing more solemn or impressive than the 
facts of life. In short, everywhere the results of true science will be 
found to coincide with the results of true art. 




ATHENA WRITING. 



CHAPTER II.— DEMOSTHENES. 

I.— The Life of Demosthenes. His Early Speeches. II.— His Opposition to Philip 
of Macedon. The Divided Condition of the Greeks. The Position of Demos- 
thenes. His Various Efforts to Arouse his Fellow-Countrymen. The Olynthiac 
Orations. III. — Attacks Made upon Him. The Further Development of the Long 
Struggle between Athens and Philip ; the King's Success. IV. — Last Years of De- 
mosthenes. V. — Qualities of his Eloquence. Hopelessness of his Position. Con- 
temporary Orators, Pliopion, Hypereides, etc. The Later History of Oratory. 
VI. — Extracts. 



DEMOSTHENES was born in the year 385 B.C. at Athens, where 
his father was a rich citizen, the owner of two factories. When he 
was seven years old his father died, leaving a property of about fourteen 
talents in the charge of guardians. These men were faithless or in- 
competent, and when Demosthenes came of age he found himself the 
possessor of something less than two talents ; he thus entered life a 
poor man. He first obtained occupation in the law-courts, preparing 
himself for the duties of this profession, it is said, under Isaeos. Such 
is the statement, and it is borne out by the resemblance of the style of 
Demosthenes to that of his reputed teacher. It is probable in 
itself that Demosthenes should have chosen for a teacher a man who 
stood at the head of the profession he was himself proposing to adopt, 
rather than that he should place himself under a man so far removed 
from practical experience as Isocrates. Demosthenes was not strong, 
and kept himself aloof from the usual athletic sports of young Athen- 
ians, devoting himself to study. It is said, but very possibly without 
authority, that he copied out the history of Thucydides eight times 
and that he knew it by heart, an exercise which it is unlikely that Isoc- 
rates would have commended. Other anecdotes have reached us that 
bear witness to an indefatigable enthusiasm such as young men in 
Athens and elsewhere seldom show except for physical training. We 
are free to doubt the stories of his living in a cellar with half of his 
head shaved, to make it impossible for him to mingle with his kind while 
he pursued his studies ; even the pebbles in his mouth with which he 
is said to have mysteriously overcome his defective pronunciation — a 
homoeopathic remedy — are possibly more of the nature of gossip than 
of history. The true residuum of these reports we may take to be 




DEMOSTHENES. 
{Statue in the Vatican.) 



624 DEMOSTHENES. 

an indifference to the customary pleasures of his contemporaries and 
unwearying zeal in the study of oratory. He had many difficulties to 
overcome : his physical weakness, a feeble voice, a defective pronunci- 
ation were all obstacles, and especially to one who intended to speak 
before the fastidious Athenians, who regarded an orator as something 
like an actor, from whom they demanded a flawless illustration of the 
combined graces of speech, presence, and action. Yet Demosthenes 
overcame these obstacles by persistent labor. What supported him 
was not an instinctive courage that made the overcoming of his diffi- 
culties merely an agreeable exercise ; far from it, he was timid and 
nervous, but it was the quality of this defect that filled him with the 
fire of a resistless energy. Isocrates, who, it will be remembered, was 
shy and weak of voice, was able to content himself with cultivating 
flowers of rhetoric, but Demosthenes was animated by a very different 
spirit. Moreover, circumstances almost compelled him to a more active 
part in life. He brought suit against his guardians for the recovery of 
his squandered inheritance, and won his case. He was also successful 
in his work in behalf of others, to which his poverty impelled him, and 
his sincerity and energy won him many friends who aided him in vari- 
ous ways. Thus, the actor Satyros gave him instruction in declama- 
tion ; he was an apt pupil, he learned from the actors how to hold 
himself, what gestures to make, how to use his voice, and speedily se- 
cured a reputation as an overtrained artificial speaker. His adversaries 
taunted him with his midnight studies ; they said that his orations 
smelt of oil. " Yes," said Demosthenes, "my lamp and yours are 
witnesses of very different actions." 

It was when thus prepared by study and experience as a speaker, 
that Demosthenes made his appearance as a political adviser. The 
occasion was the proposal of one Septines, in the year 355 B.C., when 
Demosthenes was thirty years old, to reform the law concerning immu- 
nities from contribution to the civic expenses, such as the theatrical 
performances and maintenance of the fleet, etc. Hitherto the festi- 
vals had been supported by rich men, and immunity from them had 
been a reward granted certain families as a token of gratitude for ben- 
efits to the state. Septines proposed to abolish these immunities for 
all except the descendants of Harmodius and Aristogeiton and to for- 
bid them in the future. The position that Demosthenes took was 
very characteristic : he pointed out the danger that threatened Athens 
from the bribes of foreigners, and urged the inadvisability of choos- 
ing that time for discontinuing public generosity to deserving citi- 
zens, and to break with its old custom of rewarding worthy actions. 
This appeal to the memory of what Athens had been and done in her 
nobler days was one that Demosthenes often made, and with good 



POLITICAL POSITION OF DEMOSTHENES. 625 

reason, yet he avoided the error of crying for the past ; he demanded 
a revival of the spirit, not a galvanized imitation of the days of Solon, 
as Isocrates had done. In another way he ran counter to the advice 
of that amiable rhetorician, in declining to urge the Greeks to make 
war on the Persians. When the whole country was disturbed with 
anxiety concerning the movements of their old foes, in 354 B.C., Demos- 
thenes in his speech on the Symmories, or Navy Boards, pointed out 
the unlikelihood of serious danger, and the impossibility that the Greeks 
should combine for any aggressive war. What would have been 
at any time difficult was now impossible, and any effort to accomplish 
union would have simply resulted in showing the outside world their 
internal weakness. " The head and front of your determination con- 
sists in a frame of mind such that each man among you shall be will- 
ing and eager to do his duty. Whenever you have been united in 
your aims and each individual has regarded the task of execution as 
devolving upon himself, nothing has ever slipped from your grasp. On 
the other hand, whenever you have formed a determination, and then 
looked at one another, each expecting his neighbor to act while he 
was to remain idle, everything has failed you." He further went on 
to advise concerning the reform of the navy, but it was many years be- 
fore a change was made. With regard to the general question of hos- 
tility to Persia, he was more successful, although he attacked one of 
the strongest of Athenian prejudices. In the next year, 353 B.C., he ut- 
tered two orations, For the Megalopolitans, and For the Liberty of the 
Rhodians. In the first of them Demosthenes supported, but appa- 
rently in vain, the demand of Megalopolitans for aid in their war 
against Sparta, and he pointed out clearly the peril of even indirectly 
encouraging the aggressive Spartans ; and in the other oration he de- 
fended the Rhodians against the ill-favor of the Athenians, who were 
glad to see an old enemy defeated, even though it was defending dem- 
ocratic against oligarchic principles. 

II. 

The great work of Demosthenes, however, was in opposition to 
Philip of Macedon, who was slowly devising the plans that were to 
bring Greece into hiis power. Gradually this neighboring country had 
been acquiring civilization, the first steps being taken under Archelaus 
the First, from 413 to 399 B.C., who, as will be remembered, had 
brought Euripides and Agathon to his court, and had tried to tempt 
Socrates thither. On his death, however, the country had relapsed 
into comparative barbarism, and even its temporary polish had been but 
superficial. Philip, before he succeeded to the throne in 359 B.C., had 



626 DEMOSTHENES. 

spent three years at Thebes as a hostage, and had there observed at- 
tentively the tactics of the great Epaminondas, and the first use he 
made of his position was to strengthen the military power of his coun- 
try. His method was full of craft. The Greek colonies hemmed his 
way to the water, and the ^Egean was controlled by three powers, 
Athens, Amphipolis, and Olynthus : he steadily pursued his course, 
of isolating his enemies and conquering by detail. He thus acquired 
Amphipolis, Potidsea, and estranged Olynthus. 

The indifference of the Greeks to his persistent, if well-veiled, ad- 
vance, is not wholly unaccountable. In the first place, the majority 
held the barbarian in supreme contempt, and were accustomed to fear 
only the Persians. This new foe who was rapidly growing strong on 
their northern frontier was an object of no interest to them, especially 
at the moment when the general concern for affairs of state was giving 
way before private self-seeking. Then it is not impossible that the 
old-time zeal of Archelaus for Greek men of letters blinded the eyes 
of the cultivated Athenians to the dangers that his successor was plot- 
ting. They were very conscious of the weaknesses of the Athenian 
democracy, and were averse to thinking ill of a country where philoso- 
phers and writers were so highly thought of. Moreover, the cosmo- 
politanism which was one side of the new culture, and one that was 
going to have a vast influence in later times, already inclined educated 
men to shut their minds against this danger, and to regard interna- 
tional jealousies as trivial matters. In time, too, the number of Philip's 
adherents was increased by his liberal bribes. 

The first and almost the only one to see the future peril was Demos- 
thenes, and the rest of his life may be almost described as a protracted 
struggle with Philip, who soon recognized in the orator his most for- 
midable antagonist. Yet even he, indomitable as he was when his 
eyes were opened, was slow in arriving at his determination ; in his 
speech against Septines, in 354 B.C., he, to be sure, mentioned the loss 
of Potidaea and Pydna, and asked if the men who had given up those 
two places had not acted from hopes of largess from the king, but else- 
where he made almost no mention of Philip, or, if he spoke of him, 
did so without expressing any real anxiety. In time, however, matters 
came more nearly to a crisis. When word reached Athens in the year 
before that Philip was advancing on the Thracian Chersonese, an arma- 
ment was voted, although nothing followed the brief spasm of energy. 
The next year, 351 B.C., Demosthenes astounded Athens by an oration 
in which he besought the people to break at once with their old leaders 
and to face the dangers which he pointed out. The oration in which 
he did this is called the First Philippic. It was not Philip alone that 
he attacked ; it was the Athenian people, whose remissness he was 



DEMOSTHENES' OPPOSITION TO PHILIP. 627 

ever spurring by rigid and unanswerable proof of the necessity of im- 
mediate action, by appeals to their former readiness, by comparison of 
this apathy with the energy of their sleepless foe. All this is poured 
forth with the most burning eagerness, with a succession of swift, im- 
pressive sentences that leave no manner of argument untouched. 

" Philip," he says, " is not a man to rest satisfied with conquests won, he 
is ever enlarging his circle, and whilst we wait and fold our hands, he 
encloses us on all sides with his toils. When then, Athenians, will you do 
your duty ? For what are you .waiting ? For necessity ? Then what are 
we to think of present affairs ? To my mind, the strongest necessity a free 
man knows is shame for his cause. Or, tell me, do you prefer to stroll about 
and ask one another, Is there any news ? Why, what newer thing could 
there be than a Macedonian subjugating Athenians, and controlling the 
affairs of Greece ? Is Philip dead ? No, he is only ill. Dead or ill, what 
difference does it make to you ? If anything should befall him you will soon 
raise up another Philip for yourselves." 

Yet eloquent as the speech was, it failed to accomplish any consid- 
erable good ; a small fleet of four or five ships was sent to the Cher- 
sonese under an incompetent commander, and that was all. The 
Athenians persisted in their indifference to Philip, and continued to 
reserve all their fears for the Persian king. They were awakened only 
when it was too late. We know but little of what Philip did in the 
next two years. When next we hear of him, he was preparing to 
seize Olynthus, and the people of that town appealed to Athens for aid. 
The three Olynthiacs, as they are called, deal with this crisis. They 
were spoken in 350 or 349 B.C., their date and the order of their utter- 
ance being uncertain. The embassy of the Olynthians succeeded in 
persuading the Athenians to send a small force of some thirty galleys 
and two thousand mercenary troops, a miserably insufficient force; and 
a second appeal was sent which brought a larger number, still of mer- 
cenaries, and under the command of a worthless man. 

In the first oration Demosthenes tried to point out how good an 
opportunity awaited the Athenians to revenge themselves on Philip. 
If they will only do their duty they will be able to overthrow him ; for 
his weakness needs only defeat to come to light. He describes him as 
a wicked, arrogant, ungenerous despot. But only firm and swift action 
will prevail against him : 

" If he is ever trying to outdo the past, and you never boldly take hold of 
anything, what result can be expected ? In heaven's name, is there any one 
so foolish as not to know that if we are remiss the war will soon be here ? 
And then, Athenians, we shall be like men who borrow readily at high rates 
of interest, and after a brief season of well-being lose even their capital. So, 
I am afraid that we may at last have paid a high price for our indifference, 
that our easy ways may in time enforce upon us many a hard and disagree- 
able task, and that even our homes may be imperilled." 



628 DEMOSTHENES. 

What Demosthenes was really desiring was that the sum set aside 
as the Festival Fund, moneys by which the Athenians really bribed 
themselves to sloth, should be devoted to this war, but there was a 
rule forbidding even the direct proposal of this plan, and the orator 
could only hint at it. If the sum could be obtained troops could be 
sent in two divisions, — one to defend Olynthus, while the other made 
a diversion in Macedon. 

In the Second Olynthiac he repeats very much the same arguments, 
pointing out the disgrace that would follow the abandonment of their 
allies, and urging every argument to awaken the Athenians from their 
apathy. He points to the dishonesty on which Philip's success rests, 
and affirms that the consequent weakness will make itself apparent 
when war is declared. Then he turns upon the Athenians and points 
out their notorious shortcomings, their incessant wrangling without 
action, a most lamentable contrast to their old-time energy as well as 
to Philip's unceasing efforts : 

" Here we remain sitting still and doing nothing, and the sluggard cannot 
command the services of his friends, much less of the gods. No wonder 
that he who marches and toils in person, who is on hand everywhere, and 
never misses an opportunity or lets a season go by, should get the better of 
us who postpone, pass votes, and ask questions. This does not surprise 
me. . . What does surprise me is that you, Athenians, who in old days upheld 
the cause of Greece against the Lacedaemonians, who declined many chances 
of selfish profit, who contributed of your own substance, and bore the brunt 
of danger in the field — and all in defense of the common rights — that you 
now hesitate to serve and to contribute to preserve your own possessions." 

In the Third Olynthiac Demosthenes speaks in a severer tone. 
Before this he had presented grounds for hope, now he mingles solemn 
warning with his suggestions of the probability of success. An excel- 
lent chance remains, if only it be taken, and aid be at once sent 
Olynthus. Yet this is to be done rather as a matter of defense of the 
allies than with any expectation of punishing Philip ; the time for 
punishing him is gone. And in order to do this it is not necessary to 
pass new laws, for there were enough laws already, but to repeal such 
as are mischievous, like that forbidding any other application of the 
Festival Fund. This is the only practical means of doing anything; 
resolutions are of no use ; if they had been Philip would have been 
punished long ago. Then he draws a most vivid picture of the Athens 
of old times and of the Athens of his own time : 

" For forty-five years our fathers ruled over a willing Greece ; they brought 
into the Acropolis more than 10,000 talents ; the king of Macedon paid them 
that submission which a barbarian owes to the Greeks ; they built many 
glorious trophies in memory of their victories by land and sea ; they alone 



EXTRACTS FROM THE THIRD OLYNTHIAC. 629 

of all men have left an inheritance of renown which envy cannot blast." 
Now, on the other hand, " when we might have held our own in security, 
and have been umpires of the claims of others, we have been robbed of our 
territory, and have spent more than 1500 talents with no result ; the allies 
whom we gained in war have been lost to us in peace through those leaders ; 
we have trained into greatness our enemy and rival. If not, I would ask 
any one to come forward and tell me whence but from the heart of Athens 
Philip has drawn his strength. But, I hear it said, things abroad may be 
bad, yet domestic affairs are better. What are the proofs ? The parapets 
that we whitewash, the road that we repair, the fountains and such trumpery ? 
Look at the men whose rule has produced these fruits. They have exchanged 
beggary for wealth, obscurity for fame ; some have built private houses that 
are finer than the public buildings, and as Athens has been degraded they 
have been exalted." 

The reason of the change he finds to be the aversion of private 
citizens to public duty and the great power of politicians : 

" At present they control the disposal of emoluments ; all business goes 
through their hands. You, the masses of the people, emasculated, robbed of 
treasures and of allies, are reduced to the condition of servants and supernu- 
meraries, happy if your friends grant you festival moneys, and get up special 
processions, and, to crown your manly conduct, you are grateful for being- 
offered what is really yours. Meanwhile, they pen you up within the walls of 
the city, and conduct you to your pleasures, making you gentle and docile. It 
appears to me impossible that high and generous sentiments can be inspired 
by mean and contemptible actions. Men's sentiments must bear the exact 
impress of their habits." [A phrase that reminds one of Thucydides.] By 
returning to the old ways, choosing action rather than discussion, good may 
yet be done. Certainly the scraps of money that are given you for your 
pleasures are of no use. [And here he made one of the best of his many brief, 
stinging comparisons] : " Just as the sick man's diet neither gives him strength 
nor permits him to die, so these gifts that are made to you are not enough 
to be of any real use or to allow you to turn to something else in despair." 

Once more his eloquence had no practical result — indeed, eloquence 
only truly flourishes when nothing is done by it ; the knowledge of 
this fact alone produces it — and Philip advanced on the doomed city. 
One more appeal for aid came from it ; the Athenians at last sent off 
a goodly number of citizens this time, but they were too late. Baffling 
winds detained them, and before their arrival Olynthus had fallen 
before the wiles rather than the arms of the Macedonians. Philip 
razed that city and its thirty-two allied towns, and sold 10,000 inhab- 
itants into slavery. This tragic event created the greatest excitement 
in Greece, but even yet, although this was the beginning of the down- 
fall of Grecian freedom, its full import was not recognized. The 
severity of his treatment of Olynthus completely broke the spirit of 
the timid and decided the hesitating. Yet it did not suffice to show 
all the Greeks the full extent of the peril that threatened them. It 
was very evident, however, that something had to be done. 



630 DEMOSTHENES. 



Ill, 



During the time that these momentous events were taking place, 
Demosthenes had been the object of the severest attacks from the 
party that was opposed to his aggressive policy, and every means was 
taken to overthrow his considerable influence. The most formidable 
assault was made in the year 348 B.C. by a certain Meidias, an old foe of 
Demosthenes, whose anger had been newly kindled by the orator's 
opposition to the Eubcean war, which he regarded as an indirect assist- 
ance to Philip by distracting the Greeks from more important events. 
In that year Demosthenes had taken upon himself the duty of pro- 
viding the chorus for his tribe at the Great Dionysia, and Meidias 
undertook to thwart him in every way in his power. At last, after 
trying to secure beforehand an unfavorable opinion from the dramatic 
judges, he wholly lost his temper and slapped the face of Demosthenes 
before the whole theater. Demosthenes brought suit against him for 
contempt of the festival, and his speech of accusation has come down 
to us. It is full of severe indignation and not unnatural wrath ; it is 
interesting, as everything must be interesting that throws light on this 
remarkable man, and as a specimen of the violent invective in which 
ancient orators indulged. It shows, too, the persecution which dogged 
the steps of a prominent Athenian, but it is far less important than the 
great political activity of Demosthenes. This was evidently his own 
opinion, for without pushing the case to its end he dropped the matter 
in 347 B.C., and became a member of the embassy that was sent to 
Philip to arrange a peace. 

That he who had so eagerly encouraged fighting with Macedon 
should now be anxious to arrange a peace was no inexplicable incon- 
sistency ; for an attempt to unite all the Greeks into a confederacy had 
failed, and time was needed for new preparations. It was now that 
we find Demosthenes coming across his future antagonist ^Eschines, 
the orator who was to be the mouthpiece of all the opposition to his 
proposals. This man, born 393 B.C., of an old Athenian family that 
had been ruined in the Peloponnesian war, had known a chequered 
experience, as usher in his father's school and as an actor, besides 
holding a position in the service of Eubulos and Aristophon, two 
enemies of Demosthenes. He had also served with credit as a soldier. 
Six years earlier than Demosthenes he made his appearance as a public 
orator, a position for which he was fitted by his knowledge of law and 
his powerful and well-trained voice. He possessed by nature an equip- 
ment that was denied his greater rival. At first he was an enthusiastic 
opponent of Philip; gradually, however, his lack of principle enrolled 



THE EMBASSY OF TEN— PHILIP GETS A FOOTHOLD IN GREECE. 631 

him among the supporters of that powerful monarch. The steps by 
which he fell away are not clear ; it is not impossible that mere jealousy 
of Demosthenes may have hastened his downfall. 

This embassy of ten, which included yEschines and Demosthenes, 
found Philip full of promises and apparent amiability. Demosthenes, 
his readier rival tells us, was overcome with embarrassment and made 
a complete failure when he tried to address Philip. Modesty was 
never a failing of ^Eschines, and he made a long speech in which he 
proved from mythical and actual history that Athens had a clear title 
to Amphipolis, an argument that must have amused Philip, who had 
just made recent history and become the owner of that city. The 
terms of peace the ambassadors brought back were the maintenance 
of the present condition of things, this condition being made more pal- 
atable by a vague promise of great services. When the question came 
for debate by the assemblies of the people, it was found that two allies 
of the Athenians were especially excluded, the Phocians and the town 
of Halus in Thessaly. ^Eschines urged the acceptance of the treaty 
subject to this omission ; Demosthenes urged the exclusion of this 
clause. The Macedonian plenipotentiaries refused to admit this ex- 
clusion which was voted by the assembly, and the Athenians let them- 
selves be persuaded by Philocrates and ^Eschines, two of the ambas- 
sadors to Macedon, to play into Philip's hand. They said that he 
would protect the Phocians and degrade Thebes, the old rival of 
Athens, and their words were believed. More mystifications followed ; 
the men sent to receive the ratification of the treaty from Philip and 
his allies were singularly inert and remiss, while that king was steadily 
approaching Thermopylae. Demosthenes was laughed at when he 
pointed out the imminence of the danger, and the Athenians found it 
easier to trust Philip's words than his actions. The upshot of tlve 
whole matter was that the Phocians, who, like all Greece, were torn by 
intestine dissensions, gave up Thermopylae to Philip. This pass, where 
alone resistance could be made to his march into the heart of Greece, 
was now his, and, one might almost say, was thrust into his hands by 
the Athenians, who let themselves be hoodwinked and cajoled into 
refusing to help to defend it. The opposing Phocian towns, twenty- 
two in number, were dismantled, the inhabitants were scattered among 
the villages and compelled to pay a heavy tribute, as well as deprived 
of their horses and weapons. More than this, the rights of the Pho- 
cians in the Amphictyonic Council were transferred to Philip, and the 
right of precedence in consulting the oracle was transferred from 
Athens to him. He was also chosen to preside at the Pythian games in 
346 B.C. By this important change, Philip was received into the Hel- 
lenic commonwealth at the religious center, a step which must have 



632 DEMOSTHENES. 

been extremely gratifying to his ambition, as well as most impressive 
to his friends and foes. Those who tacitly or openly encouraged him 
now had some justification for their confidence. Hopes of a united 
Greece under him as leader became more common, as we may see 
from the letter in which Isocrates urged Philip to assume this position. 
Yet the Athenians, although they had done so much to bring about 
his success, were for the most part recalcitrant now that their eyes 
were at last fairly opened. They refused to send any representatives 
to the Pythian games, and the greatest opposition was aroused when 
Philip sent ambassadors to demand recognition of what had been done. 
Many patriots demanded that this be indignantly refused, but Demos- 
thenes, in his speech On the Peace, delivered toward the end of 346 B.C., 
gave wiser counsel. He pointed out that he had been constant in his 
warnings against Philip, and that he had only exercised a careful judg- 
ment, but that now, these opportunities being lost, there was nothing 
for them to do but to resign themselves to the existing state of affairs. 
Any other conduct would expose them to attack from the combined 
forces of the Amphictyonic union, and it would be madness to go to 
war for " the shadow of Delphi." This oration, although, as is evident 
from its nature, it lacks the accustomed fire and energy, belongs to a 
series in which Demosthenes tried to make clear the new dangers that 
threatened to call forth a final struggle between Athens and Philip. 
Isocrates represents those who were ready to kiss the hands of their 
conqueror. Demosthenes was trying to form a party that should de- 
pose the lukewarm or hostile from power, and form a great Greek 
union against Philip. A pretext was not long wanting ; Philip began 
his persistent intrigues in the Peloponnesus, and Demosthenes went to 
Messene and Argos to countermine his plots. It was in the Second 
Philippic, spoken at Athens in 344 B.C., that he relentlessly branded the 
dishonesty of the king, and once more denounced his hollow promises, 
this time to protect those two cities against Sparta. It was apparently 
in discussing the matters brought up by the Messenian and Argive 
envoys that the speech was made, in which he warns the Athenians to 
be on their guard and to be ready to combine with the other Greeks 
against Philip. 

Under the inspiration of his glowing words, and strengthened by the 
obvious march of events, the patriotic party was growing in Athens 
to such an extent that in 343 B.C. Hyperides, another orator, was able 
to impeach Philocrates, a creature of Philip's, and to have him con- 
demned in his exile to death. At about the same time Demosthenes 
brought charges against ^Eschines for treacherous conduct on the 
occasion of his second embassy. The whole story is told in the ora- 
tion On the Embassy, in which the at the best dubious conduct of 



DEMOSTHENES' OPPOSITION TO PHILIP. 633 

/Eschines is exposed at great length. It was not because he made 
peace that Demosthenes accused him, but because he made a dis- 
graceful and ruinous peace. All of the conduct of ^Eschines is set in 
a light that makes a favorable judgment difficult. ^Eschines made an 
answer and managed to escape conviction, but by a very meager vic- 
tory, having a majority of only thirty votes. 

For a short season the Athenians blocked some of Philip's moves, but 
in 341 B.C. he began to make himself felt in theThracian Chersonese, a 
region of vital importance to Athens because it commanded its sup- 
plies of grain from the Black Sea. Difficulties arose between the sub- 
jects of Macedon in that quarter and Diopeithes, the Athenian gen- 
eral, whose recall was demanded by the party of Philip in Athens. In 
his speech On the Chersonese, Demosthenes presented the absolute 
necessity of maintaining their position in that place. The Third Phil- 
ippic, spoken a few months later, repeated the same advice, and brought 
out fully the proposal that Athens should take up arms and place her- 
self at the head of a Hellenic league. Yet she must remember that 
the work will not be done by others : 

" If you think that Chalcidians or Megarians will save Greece, while you 
shrink from the contest, you are mistaken. . . . The task is yours : it is the 
privilege won and bequeathed to you by your ancestors at the cost of many 
great dangers." 

And with that wide-sweeping observation and wisdom which is one 
of his most striking qualities, he affirms that the change from the 
earlier spirit is not a mere accident. 

" Once there was in the heart of the people something which is not to be 
found now, something which overcame the wealth of Persia and kept Greece 
free, which was never conquered in battle by land or sea." 

This was a hatred of bribery. 

" Now those old principles have been, as it were, sold in open market and 
new ones have been imported, by which Greece has been brought to miser- 
able weakness. And what are these ? Envy, if a man has accepted a bribe; 
ridicule, if he confesses it ; pardon, if his guilt is proved ; hatred of those 
who condemn him ; all usual accompaniments of corruption." 

The Athenians were now fully aroused, and for some time Philip 
failed of his usual success. Demosthenes was now the acknowledged 
leader of the state, and his dauntless and indefatigable energy blocked 
the Macedonians at almost every step. He carried his influence else- 
where into Greece, encouraging and directing the patriotic party 
wherever it appeared, and at the same time wisely directing matters at 
home. At last his old proposal regarding the disposition of the Festi- 



634 DEMOSTHENES. 

val Fund for military purposes was carried, and a wiser system of tax- 
ation introduced. Unfortunately, however, a new Sacred War began, 
apparently in a great measure under the instigation of ^Eschines, and 
Philip found this an opportunity to enter Greece under the pretext of 
protecting religion. No sooner had he got inside Thermopylae than he 
seized Elatea and acquired possession of the passes leading into 
Bceotia. The excitement that this event produced in Athens will be 
found in the famous oration on The Crown, of which mention is made 
below. There he recounts with sober satisfaction how, still unbroken, 
he succeeded in persuading Thebes and Athens to forget their old an- 
tagonism and side by side to face Philip at Chseronea, where the free- 
dom of Greece was overthrown. 

IV. 

Although after his victory Philip was master of the whole country, 
he treated Athens with great forbearance, declining to impose a Mace- 
donian garrison and letting her retain her municipal independence. 
Demosthenes gave his whole attention to internal affairs, awaiting 
Philip's death as a possible opportunity for regaining freedom. The 
most important event of his later years was his great oratorical duel with 
^Eschines, in 330 B.C., when, six years after Philip's death, Alexander's 
power made revolution hopeless, and ^Eschines chose that time for a 
deliberate attack on his rival. In 336 B.C. Ctesiphon had proposed that 
a golden crown should be given to Demosthenes as a reward for his 
services in behalf of the state, a measure that ^Eschines at once 
opposed on various technical grounds. For six years, however, he 
delayed bringing the matter before the courts, until the final victory 
of the Macedonian power seemed to assure his success. Stripped of 
its technicalities, the speech against Ctesiphon was simply an indict- 
ment of the whole career of Demosthenes before a large number of 
Athenians and foreigners who were assembled in view of the impor- 
tance of the occasion. The reply of Demosthenes was an account and 
explanation of his whole conduct ; how eloquent and complete it was 
the extract given below will serve to show. His speech is the master- 
piece of the world's oratory, and his victory was complete. yEschines, 
whose oration possesses great merit, failed to receive one-fifth of the 
votes, and in consequence he left Athens, betaking himself to Rhodes, 
where, it is said, he opened a school of elocution. The story runs 
that there he once recited to his pupils the oration of Demosthenes 
On the Crown, and when they expressed their admiration he asked 
them, "What if you had heard the beast himself speak it?" 

Five years later Demosthenes was accused of malversation of moneys 




vESCHINES. 
{Marble Statue /rout Herculaneum.) 



£>3 6 DEMOSTHENES. 

and was found guilty. The whole story reaches us in a confused state, 
and modern opinion inclines in favor of his innocence, mainly from the 
difficulty of believing that a man of so lofty character could have been 
guilty of the vulgar crime of receiving a bribe. At the worst, it is 
held, he received a sum of money from Harpalus, a defaulting treasurer 
of Alexander's, to serve as the foundation of a war fund for future 
use. Whatever the exact state of the case may have been, Demos- 
thenes was condemned to prison, whence, however, he managed to make 
his escape, and as Plutarch relates " he might often be seen sitting on 
the shores of Troezen and ^Egina, gazing towards Attica with tear-filled 
eyes." In 323 B.C., when Alexander died and there seemed a chance for 
Greece to throw off its yoke, Demosthenes was recalled to Athens, a 
galley was sent to bring him back from ^Egina, and a procession headed 
by priests and archons accompanied him on his way to the city. 
Their hopes were soon destroyed ; the battle of Crannon, in 322 B.C., fol- 
lowing the death of the leading Athenian general Leosthenes, destroyed 
all chance of resistance, and Athens was compelled to receive a Mace- 
donian garrison, to make over its constitution, and to surrender the 
leading patriotic orators. A decree was passed by the Assembly con- 
demning Demosthenes and Hyperides to death. Demosthenes had 
already fled from Athens, and was found by his pursuers — exile hunters 
they were called — in a temple of Poseidon in Calauria. It was a former 
actor, Archias by name, who tried to tempt him from this secure 
retreat, but Demosthenes said, " Archias, you have never imposed 
upon me by your acting, and you can not impose upon me now by your 
promises "; and when he was threatened he said, " Now you speak like 
a Macedonian oracle ; before, you were only acting. Wait a moment 
till I write a line to my friends at home." Then he took poison and 
soon died, first leaving the temple to avoid polluting it by his death. 
This was in 322 B.C., when he was about sixty-two years old. 

Besides what Demosthenes did in behalf of his unfortunate country, 
he labored as a private advocate, and many of the speeches that he 
wrote in this capacity have come down to us. These are about thirty 
in all, although many of them are adjudged spurious. What is curious 
in these speeches is the freedom of invective permitted before the 
courts; this was a common quality of Athenian eloquence, although 
more prominent here. Important as they are for the light they throw 
on Athenian law, they sink into insignificance by the side of the public 
orations. 

V. 

What characterizes the eloquence of Demosthenes in these greatest 
triumphs of his genius is his resistless force. Other orators have been 



638 DEMOSTHENES. 

famous for pathos, for grace, for dignity, for grandeur, for the vigor of 
their logic: we are carried away by him with but little chance to 
analyze or describe the feeling that has swept us off our feet. Of 
artifice or conventionality he shows no trace. All that art could fur- 
nish had been absorbed by him, and never appeared as an external 
accomplishment. Rules seem not to exist for him. The venerable 
Isocrates lived upon them : he spent ten years on a political pamphlet 
that at once on its appearance took the place in ancient history that 
it now holds, and we can conceive of him in serious distress over the 
balancing of sentences and paragraphs. In Demosthenes the quick 
question and answer, the perpetual fire of suggestion, argument, 
ridicule, contempt and enthusiasm lies far beyond the laws of conven- 
tional rhetoric. The lesson to be learned by the hearer is enforced by 
repeated and vigorous blows ; there is apparent no premeditated arrange- 
ment, no assemblage of arguments into battalions which sweep forward 
in heavy masses like troops at a review, when the infantry advances 
after half an hour's cannonading : far from such orderly movement, he 
carries us at once into the heat of a genuine combat where all is hot 
and confused, but is yet under the control of a real commander who 
knows when to assault, when to seem to give ground, and presses on 
irresistibly to victory. Isocrates is always on parade, anxious that his 
forces keep step and touch ; Demosthenes shines on the battle-field. 
And as, other things being equal, it is the general who leads the best 
trained forces that will win, so Demosthenes maintains order in 
apparent chaos through his knowledge of all the technique that was 
painfully acquired by his predecessors. From Isseos in particular he 
learned the brevity that gave his sentences the swift effect of musketry 
fire. Thucydides had already taught the serious lesson that human 
fortune was the inevitable result of human actions, a truth that 
animated the whole effort of Demosthenes to persuade the Athenians 
to resume their former high position. Yet he did this without sharing 
their local, narrowing prejudices; outside of Athens, he saw Greece; 
and above Greece, he saw the eternal laws of right that alone prevail. 
The growth of his perception, the gradual widening of his sympathies, 
may be clearly observed by the student who reads his orations in their 
chronological order. And above all his intellectual force, marvelous 
as this is, stood his noble moral character with its energy, its futile 
patriotism, its exalted love of duty and of everything honorable. Two 
thousand years afterward, none can read without emotion the story 
of the wreck of Grecian freedom ; apathy, corruption, had prepared 
the sad event ; as the tragedy moves to its completion, the doomed 
hero's voice is heard counseling, warning, advising, encouraging. Con- 
stantly he is about to succeed ; one vain effort is made after another, 



THE EXTINCTION OF ATHENIAN FREEDOM. 639 

but with a languid force, with insufficient means, until finally the play 
is over and the curtain falls on the extinction of Athenian freedom. 
One does not need to be a Cato to love the defeated cause. Yet it is 
to be borne in mind that it is to the reason that Demosthenes makes 
constant and urgent appeal, and herein lies his greatest force, although, 
as has been well said by Mr. Butcher in his admirable monograph on 
the great orator, " thought is everywhere interpenetrated with feeling, 
reason is itself passionate." It is a lofty intelligence that is swayed, 
not overwhelmed, by feeling ; his intellect is heated by passion, but 
never to the point of bending. The whole character of Greek elo- 
quence makes clear the superiority of this method, and nothing shows 
it better than the almost imperative rule that an oration should not 
end in a turmoil of excitement. That must be allayed before the ter- 
mination, or all its power is illegitimate. The only exception in the 
history of Greek eloquence is the conclusion of the oration On the 
Crown, which ends with terrible imprecations before the final bless- 
ing ; everywhere else the rigid control of the artistic sense enforces a 
calm like that of the closing lines of the tragedies. It is certainly a 
marvelous proof of the store that the Greeks set by intellectual dig- 
nity, that they thus forbade the unfair prominence of the emotions. 

In the pathetic story of the powerless efforts of Demosthenes to 
arrest the course of public affairs, we are reading more than a single 
personal tragedy, although he will fill the position of hero in the mel- 
ancholy drama. It was the defeat of what survived of the old spirit 
of Athens that wrings the heart of the student, who finds little conso- 
lation in the fact that it was inevitable, and but the natural result of 
division in the face of a superior united force. While Isocrates was 
disposed to assent to the new condition of things, and at the same time 
held the position of superiority in literary art, Demosthenes preserves 
the old excellence of the bright days of Greece, not merely in his polit- 
ical beliefs, but in his superiority to mere literary qualities. His won- 
derful preeminence is not of the kind that text-books can teach, but is 
the last glow of that amazing quality of the Greeks which defies thor- 
ough definition. Every one of the traits of Isocrates has been studied, 
named, and classified ; grammarians and rhetoricians have grown 
rich on the exposition of his art ; in Demosthenes everything is 
subordinate to the eagerness of his message, and he is as superior to 
formal excellence of expression as is the statement of truth to mere 
elegance of form. The lofty spirit of courage and independence that 
he tried to arouse in his fellow-citizens found its counterpart in his 
impassioned language, just as the mistaken wisdom of Isocrates, with 
its incompetent vision of the real matter at stake, suited that orator's 
rhetorical shallowness. What we miss to make the picture complete 



640 DEMOSTHENES. 

is some report of the speeches of Phocion,' the practical-minded man, 
whose personal incorruptibility was rare and famous ; he it was whom 
Demosthenes called the cleaver of his speeches. If we had what he 
said, we should doubtless find plainness of speech, such as became a 
man who looked at facts in the face, and was as far from the fancies 
of Isocrates on the one hand as from the sublime enthusiasm of De- 
mosthenes on the other. With all the evidence before us, we should 
have a complete view of the hopeless division of the city, and a ready 
comprehension of its fall. It was the glory of the past that animated 
Demosthenes, and with him vanished the last cry of what mere liter- 
ature has never been able to repeat. 

Besides these orators, who so well represent the protracted struggle 
before the final defeat of Athens, there were others, of more or less 
repute, in the parties that contested for the control of the policy of 
that ill-fated city. Of these, Lycurgus, Hyperides, and Dinarches 
were included in the canon of the ten Attic orators composed by the 
later Alexandrine critics. The first-named of these, born in 408 B.C., 
was a friend and supporter of Demosthenes. Of his work only a single 
oration has come down to us, that against Leocrates, an Athenian who 
deserted his country after the battle of Chaeronea. This speech im- 
presses the modern reader with greater respect for the orator's patriot- 
ism than for his eloquence. At the time when it was spoken, how- 
ever, Athens perhaps stood in greater need of patriotism than of elo- 
quence, and the career of Lycurgus gave many proofs of his personal 
merit. We are told that he was instrumental in securing a careful 
copy of all the tragedies of ^Eschylus, Sophocles, and Euripides for 
the state archives, and, what was doubtless more appreciated by his 
contemporaries, that he did faithful service as treasurer of the public 
funds. He died in 323 B.C. Hyperides was the most famous of these 
three, and by some of the ancients he was rated in certain qualities 
higher even than Demosthenes, whose friend he was for a long period, 
although finally he became a bitter foe and secured his exile from 
Athens. It is said that at last they became reconciled. Hyperides 
was born in a deme of Athens, so famous for the eloquence of its in- 
habitants that one of the Fathers of the Church, Tertullian, asserted 
that the children born in it talked before they were a month old. 
This precocity, if it ever existed, was not followed by dumbness in 
later life, as this orator, and vEschines, born in the same happy con- 
ditions, clearly show. He began his career by preparing speeches for 
parties in the law courts, and when he was thus fitted by practice he 
made his appearance as an orator. He was, we are told, a pupil of 
Plato and Isocrates, aud thus received the best instruction that the 
time could furnish. By allying himself with Demosthenes, after the 




PHOCION. 



642 DEMOSTHENES. 

peace between Athens and Philip in 346 B.C., he became a leader of the 
patriotic party, and the two men held a bold front against the enemy 
of their country. The unfortunate quarrel between them, which is a 
distinct intimation of the way in which matters had complicated them- 
selves, resulted favorably for Hyperides and left him practically in 
the control of the state. They were brought together again by com- 
mon persecution, and Hyperides, like his illustrious rival, was tracked 
by officials who made a business of laying their hands on the men pro- 
scribed by the authorities. In 322 B.C. he was put to torture and killed. 

Until very recently only the scantiest fragments of the speeches of 
Hyperides remained, but between 1847 and 1857, a number of Egyp- 
tian papyri came to light that contained one whole oration and 
important parts of others. Unfortunately these do not illustrate some 
of the qualities for which he was most famous, namely, his wit and 
vividness of speech, and unwearying variety. The funeral oration 
which we have of his gave but little opportunity for the display of 
such qualities. The other fragments, however, bear witness to his 
naturalness and facility. His apparent simplicity, his freedom from 
the chains of art, survive here, just as the grace of Attic work still 
lives in a mutilated fragment of sculpture. 

Dinarches, the third of these men, was by birth a Corinthian, who 
acquired considerable fame by the legal speeches which he composed 
at Athens after its subjugation by Macedon. He died in 292 B.C. 
Such of his work as survives is marked by no very vivid qualities. 

Of the other Attic orators the most important were Demades, Cri- 
tias, Callistratus, Aristophon, Cephisodoros, Hegesippus, Eubulus, 
and Demochares. Demades was an ardent adherent of the Macedo- 
nian party and naturally a bitter foe of Demosthenes. He was 
strongly suspected, and nothing seems more probable, of being bribed 
by Philip, — ten talents appears to have been the sum paid. His thrift 
was perhaps greater than his eloquence, for he received another bribe 
of five talents from the friends of Demosthenes to secure from Alex- 
ander the remission of the order to surrender that orator and other 
patriots, and other instances of similar disinterestedness in the way 
of receiving money have been told. The man was a worthless crea- 
ture on whom there is no other occasion to dwell than that these 
anecdotes, and they seem to be well attested, make plain the de- 
generacy of Athens, and the hopeless nature of the struggle which 
Demosthenes was forever endeavoring to make. He appears to have 
possessed a ready and effective eloquence, that was, in its way, some- 
times a match even for that of Demosthenes. 

The various orators — as an attempt has been made to show in the 
cases of Isocrates and Demosthenes, the two leaders — have another 



INFLUENCE OF THE PHILOSOPHERS UPON GREEK SOCIETY. 643 

value than that which belongs to them as masters of eloquence, name- 
ly, as expressions of the divided councils that then existed in Athens. 
Demades stands for the party of corruption, whose grandfathers were 
branded with eternal infamy by Aristophanes, and Phocion shows 
clearly in his life some of the influences that had long been at work 
disintegrating Greek society through the teachings of the philoso- 
phers. The full extent of their modification of the intellectual, 
religious, and political habits of their countrymen must be seen below ; 
here it is possible only to point out the fact that those leaders of 
thought, by their aristocratic principles and their cosmopolitanism, 
which inclined them to accept the leadership of Macedonia, founded a 
considerable party in Athens, of which Phocion was the head. While 
Demosthenes looked upon this party as a collection of traitors, they, 
in their turn, regarded him as an impracticable lover of the past ; 
they saw, what events proved, that his cause was a hopeless one, and 
in their protracted conflict we may see a vivid picture of the complex- 
ities that time introduced into their political condition. The aristo- 
cratic tendencies of the cultivated classes are obvious enough : in 
behalf of their cosmopolitanism, it is only necessary to say that it 
was, as will be seen, a principle that had long been preached by the 
ablest thinkers; and although Demosthenes speaks of the Macedonians 
as barbarians, it must be remembered that although they were less 
cultivated than the Greeks, they possessed the same religious beliefs, 
and that there were no greater linguistic differences between the two 
races than already existed between the Dorians and the Ionians. 

One proof of the influence of Plato upon Phocion is given by Plu- 
tarch in his life of this distinguished man, when he says that once 
when Phocion was blamed for letting Nikanor escape after showing 
traitorous designs, he answered that he felt perfect confidence in 
Nikanor's words, and saw no reason for suspecting him of evil 
designs ; " whatever the upshot may be I had rather be found suffer- 
ing, than committing, injustice." This is a sentiment that we shall 
find below to have been uttered by Plato in one of his dialogues, and 
although Plutarch is a faithful disciple of that great philosopher, he 
draws the line here and wonders whether Phocion by adhering to this 
rule did not break another and higher obligation to his country. 
This incident in Phocion's life shows at least the many-sidedness of 
the problem which had to be solved by the contemporaries of 
Demosthenes. 

Critias, one of the thirty tyrants, was a famous speaker as well as 
writer of tragic and elegiac poetry. It was Callistratus whose excel- 
lence, it is said, turned the attention of the youthful Demosthenes to 
public speaking. The story runs that Demosthenes, on being asked 



644 DEMOSTHENES. 

who was the greatest orator, said, •' I am when one reads me ; but 
Callistratus when one hears him." Aristophon owes the preserva- 
tion of his name to its complimentary mention by Demosthenes in 
his oration against Leptines. Cephisodoros, a friend of Isocrates r 
wrote a defense of him against the attacks of Aristotle. Hegesippos 
was an ally of Demosthenes. Eubulus, on the other hand, was one of 
the bitterest of his foes. Demochares, a nephew of Demosthenes, 
was one of the more important of the later statesmen and a worthy 
supporter of his uncle's principles. But in his time eloquence had 
practically ceased to exist ; yet the shadow of it survived, and men 
studied the art of speech, of gesture, of oratorical language, in the 
schools of rhetoric, where the pupils laboriously acquired the faculty 
of marking time and learned to listen with rapture to the sound of 
their own voices. Books on rhetoric became common, and during the 
reign of Alexander and later, orators indulged in speeches on formal 
occasions with no real design in view except that of affording delight 
in artificial eloquence. This period is known as the time when what 
is called Asiatic oratory prevailed, for it was in Asia Minor and the 
adjacent islands that the art flourished. ^Eschines, we have seen, 
established a school of the sort at Rhodes ; Hegesias, a writer of his- 
tory, Demetrius of Attica became known later for the same work. 
In this way disappears the last trace of the once magnificent 
Greek oratory. Its work was done when it ceased to concern itself 
with actualities ; it was mere rhetoric of the schools in its later days, 
though even here it remained an important part of education and 
exerted very great influence upon the Romans. 

THE SECOND OLYNTHIAC. 

I am by no means affected in the same manner, Athenians ! when I 
review the state of our affairs, and when I attend to those speakers who have 
now declared their sentiments. They insist that we should punish Philip: 
but our affairs, situated as they now appear, warn us to guard against the 
dangers with which we ourselves are threatened. Thus far, therefore, I 
must differ from these speakers, that I apprehend they have not proposed 
the proper object for your attention. There was a time indeed, I know it 
well, when the state could have possessed her own dominions in security, 
and sent out her armies to inflict chastisement on Philip. I myself have 
seen that time, when we enjoyed such power. But now, I am persuaded we 
should confine ourselves to the protection of our allies. When this is once 
effected, then we may consider the punishment his outrages have merited. 
But till the first great point be well secured, it is weakness to debate about 
our more remote concernments. 

And now, Athenians ! if ever we stood in need of mature deliberation 
and counsel, the present juncture calls aloud for them. To point out the 
course to be pursued on this emergency, I do not think the greatest diffi- 



THE SECOND OLYNTHIAC. 645 

culty : but I am in doubt in what manner to propose my sentiments ; for 
all that I have observed, and all that I have heard, convinces me that most 
of your misfortunes have proceeded from a want of inclination to pursue 
the necessary measures : not from ignorance of them. Let me entreat you, 
that, if I now speak with an unusual boldness, ye may bear it : considering 
only whether I speak truth, and with a sincere intention to advance your 
future interests : for you now see that by some orators, who study but to 
gain your favour, our affairs have been reduced to the extremity of distress. 

I think it necessary, in the first place, to recall some late transactions to 
your thoughts. You may remember, Athenians ! that about three or four 
years since, you received advice that Philip was in Thrace, and had laid 
siege to the fortress of Heraea. It was then the month of November. 
Great commotion and debates arose. It was resolved to send out forty 
galleys ; that all citizens under the age of five-and-forty should themselves 
embark ; and that sixty talents should be raised. Thus it was agreed ; 
that year passed away ; then came in the months of July, August, Sep- 
tember. In this last month, with great difficulty, when the mysteries 
had first been celebrated, you sent out Charidemus, with just ten vessels 
unmanned, and five talents of silver. For when reports came of the sick- 
ness and the death of Philip (both of these were affirmed), you laid 
aside your intended armament, imagining that at such a juncture there 
was no need of succours. And yet this was the very critical moment : for 
had they been despatched with the same alacrity with which they were 
granted, Philip would not have then escaped, to become that formidable 
enemy he now appears. 

But what was then done cannot be amended. Now we have the oppor- 
tunity of another war : that war, I mean, which hath induced me to bring 
these transactions into view, that you may not once more fall into the same 
errors. How then shall we improve this opportunity ? This is the only 
question. For if you are not resolved to assist with all the force you can 
command, you are really serving under Philip, you are fighting on his side. 
The Olynthians are a people whose power was thought considerable. Thus 
were the circumstances of affairs : Philip could not confide in them ; they 
looked with equal suspicion upon Philip. We and they then entered into 
mutual engagements of peace and alliance : this was a grievous embarrass- 
ment to Philip, that we should have a powerful state confederated with 
us, spies upon the incidents of his fortune. It was agreed that we should by 
all means engage this people in a war with him. And now, what we all 
so earnestly desired is effected ; the manner is of no moment. What 
then remains for us, Athenians ! but to send immediate and effectual suc- 
cours, I cannot see. For besides disgrace that must attend us, if any of our 
interests are supinely disregarded, I have no small apprehensions of the 
consequence (the Thebans affected as they are toward us, and the Phocians 
exhausted of their treasures), if Philip be left at full liberty to lead his armies 
into these territories, when his present enterprises are accomplished. If 
any one among you can be so far immersed in indolence as to suffer this, 
he must choose to be witness of the misery of his own country rather than 
to hear of that which strangers suffer ; and to seek assistance for himself, 
when it is now in his power to grant assistance to others. That this must 
be the consequence if we do not exert ourselves on the present occasion, 
there can scarcely remain the least doubt among us. 

But as to the necessity of sending succours, this, it may be said, we are 



646 DEMOSTHENES. 

agreed in ; this is our resolution. But how shall we be enabled ? that is the 
point to be explained. — Be not surprised, Athenians ! if my sentiments on 
this occasion seem repugnant to the general sense of this assembly. — Appoint 
magistrates for the inspection of your laws : not in order to enact any new 
laws ; you have already a sufficient number ; but to repeal those whose ill 
effects you now experience, I mean the laws relating to the theatrical funds 
(thus openly I declare it) and some about the soldiery. By the first, the 
soldier's pay goes as theatrical expenses to the useless and inactive ; the 
others screen those from justice who decline the service of the field, and 
thus damp the ardour of those disposed to serve us. When you have re- 
pealed these, and rendered it consistent with safety to advise you justly, 
then seek for some person to propose that decree, which you all are sensible 
the common good requires. But till this be done, expect not that any man 
will urge your true interest, when, for urging your true interest, you repay him 
with destruction. Ye will never find such zeal, especially since the conse- 
quence can be only this : he who offers his opinion, and moves for your 
concurrence, suffers some unmerited calamity ; but your affairs are not in 
the least advanced ; nay, this additional inconvenience must arise, that for 
the future it will appear more dangerous to advise you than even at present ; 
and the authors of these laws should also be the authors of their repeal. 
For it is not just that the public favour should be bestowed on them, who, 
in framing these laws, have greatly injured the community ; and that the 
odium should fall on him whose freedom and sincerity are of important 
service to us all. Until these regulations be made, you are not to think any 
man so great, that he may violate these laws with impunity ; or so devoid 
of reason as to plunge himself into open and foreseen destruction. 

And be not ignorant of this, Athenians ! that a decree is of no significa- 
tion, unless attended with resolution and alacrity to execute it. For were 
decrees of themselves sufficient to engage you to perform your duty; could 
they even execute the things which they enact ; so many would not have 
been made to so little, or rather to no good purpose ; nor would the inso- 
lence of Philip have had so long a date. For if decrees can punish, he hath 
long since felt all their fury. But they have no such power ; for though 
proposing and resolving be first in order ; yet, in force and efficacy, action 
is superior. Let this then be your principal concern ; the others you can- 
not want, for you have men among you capable of advising, and you are of 
all people most acute in apprehending ; now, let your interest direct you, 
and it will be in your power to be as remarkable for acting. What season 
indeed, what opportunity do you wait for, more favorable than the present ? 
or when will you exert your vigour, if not now, my countrymen ? Hath not 
this man seized all those places that were ours ? should he become master of 
this country too, must we not sink into the lowest state of infamy ? Are 
not they whom we have promised to assist, whenever they are engaged in 
war, now attacked themselves ? Is he not our enemy ? is he not in posses- 
sion of our dominions ? is he not a barbarian ? is he not every base thing 
words can express ? If we are insensible to all this, if we almost aid his 
designs ; — Heavens ! can we then ask to whom the consequences are owing ? 
Yes, I know full well, we never will impute them to ourselves. Just as in 
the dangers of the field : not one of those who fly will accuse himself ; he 
will rather blame the general, or his fellow-soldiers; yet every single man 
that fled was accessory to the defeat : he who blames others might have 
maintained his own post ; and had every man maintained his, success must 



THE SECOND OLYNTHIAC. 647 

have ensued. Thus then, in the present case, is there a man whose counsel 
seems liable to objection ? let the next rise, and not inveigh against him, 
but declare his own opinion. Doth another offer some more salutary coun- 
sel ? pursue it, in the name of Heaven ! But then it is not pleasing. This 
is not the fault of the speaker, unless in that he hath neglected to express 
his affection in prayers and wishes. To pray is easy, Athenians ! and in 
one petition may be collected as many instances of good fortune as we 
please. To determine justly, when affairs are to be considered, is not so 
easy. But what is most useful should ever be preferred to that which is 
agreeable, where both cannot be obtained. 

But if there be a man who will leave us the theatrical funds, and propose 
other subsidies for the service of war, are we not rather to attend to him ? 
I grant it, Athenians ! if that man can be found. But I should account it 
wonderful, if it ever did, if it ever can, happen to any man on earth, that, 
while he lavishes his present possessions on unnecessary occasions, some 
future funds should be procured, to supply his real necessities. But such 
proposals find a powerful advocate in the breast of every hearer. So that 
nothing is so easy as to deceive one's self : for what we wish, that we 
readily believe : but such expectations are oftentimes inconsistent with our 
affairs. On this occasion, therefore, let your affairs direct you ; then will 
you be enabled to take the field ; then will you have your full pay. 
And men whose judgments are well directed, and whose souls are 
great, could not support the infamy which must attend them, if obliged 
to desert any of the operations of a war from the want of money : they 
could not, after snatching up their arms and marching against the Corin- 
thians and Megareans, suffer Philip to enslave the states of Greece, through 
the want of provisions for their forces. I say not this wantonly, to 
raise the resentment of some among you. No : I am not so unhappily 
perverse as to study to be hated, when no good purpose can be answered 
by it : but it is my opinion that every honest speaker should prefer the inter- 
est of the state to the favour of his hearers. This (I am assured, and 
perhaps you need not be informed) was the principle which actuated the 
public conduct of those of our ancestors who spoke in this assembly : (men, 
whom the present set of orators are ever ready to applaud, but whose exam- 
ple they by no means imitate :) such were Aristides, Nicias, the former 
Demosthenes, and Pericles. But since we have had speakers, who, before 
their public appearance, ask you : What do you desire ? What shall I pro- 
pose ? How can I oblige you ?— the interest of our country hath been 
sacrificed to momentary pleasure and popular favour. Thus have we been 
distressed ; thus have these men risen to greatness, and you sunk into 
disgrace. 

And here let me entreat your attention to a summary account of the con- 
duct of your ancestors, and of your own. I shall mention but a few things, 
and these well-known ; for if you would pursue the way to happiness, you 
need not look abroad for leaders ; our own countrymen point it out. These 
our ancestors, therefore, whom the orators never courted, never treated with 
that indulgence with which you are flattered, held the sovereignty of 
Greece, with general consent, five-and-forty years ; deposited above ten 
thousand talents in our public treasury ; kept the king of this country in 
that subjection which a barbarian owes to Greeks ; erected monuments of 
many and illustrious actions, which they themselves achieved, by land and 
sea : in a word, are the only persons who have transmitted to posterity such 



648 DEMOSTHENES. 

glory as is superior to envy. — Thus great do they appear in the affairs of 
Greece. 

— Let us now view them within the city, both in their public and private 
conduct. And, first, the edifices which their administrations have given us, 
their decorations of our temples, and the offerings deposited by them, are 
so numerous and so magnificent, that all the efforts of posterity cannot exceed 
them. Then, in private life, so exemplary was their moderation, their 
adherence to the ancient manners so scrupulously exact, that if any of you 
ever discovered the house of Aristides, or Miltiades, or any of the illustrious 
men of those times, he must know that it was not distinguished by the least 
extraordinary splendour. For they did not so conduct the public business 
as to aggrandize themselves ; their sole great object was to exalt the state. 
And thus by their faithful attachment to Greece, by their piety to the gods, 
and by that equality which they maintained among themselves, they were 
raised (and no wonder) to the summit of prosperity. 

Such was the state of Athens at that time, when the men I have men- 
tioned were in power. But what is your condition, under these indulgent 
ministers who now direct us ? Is it the same, or nearly the same ? — Other 
things I shall pass over, though I might expatiate on them. Let it only 
be observed that we are now, as you all see, left without competitors ; the 
Lacedemonians lost, the Thebans engaged at home ; and not one of all the 
other states of consequence sufficient to dispute the sovereignty with us. 
Yet, at a time when we might have enjoyed our own dominions in security, 
and been the umpires in all disputes abroad, our territories have been 
wrested from us ; we have expended above one thousand five hundred 
talents to no purpose ; the allies which we gained in war have been lost in 
time of peace ; and to this degree of power have we raised an enemy against 
ourselves. (For let the man stand forth who can shew whence Phiiip hath 
derived his greatness, if not from us.) 

Well ! if these affairs have but an unfavourable aspect, yet those within 
the city are much more flourishing than ever. — Where are the proofs of 
this ? The walls which have been whitened ? the ways we have re- 
paired ? the supplies of water ; and such trifles ? — Turn your eyes to the 
men of whose administration these are the fruits, some of whom, from the 
lowest state of poverty, have arisen suddenly to affluence ; some from mean- 
ness to renown : others have made their own private houses much more 
magnificent than the public edifices. Just as the state hath fallen, their pri- 
vate fortunes have been raised. And what cause can we assign for this ? 
How is it that our affairs were once so flourishing, and now in such disor- 
der ? Because, formerly, the people dared to take up arms themselves ; 
were themselves masters of those in employment ; disposers themselves 
of all emoluments ; so that every citizen thought himself happy to derive 
honours and authority, and all advantages whatever, from the people. But 
now, on the contrary, favours are all dispensed, affairs all transacted, by the 
ministers ; while you, quite enervated, robbed of your riches, your allies, 
stand in the mean rank of servants and assistants : happy if these men 
grant you the theatrical appointments, and send you scraps of the public 
meal. 

And, what is of all most sordid, you hold yourselves obliged to' them for 
that which is your own : while they confine you within these walls, lead you 
on gently to their purposes, and soothe and tame you to obedience. Nor is 
it possible that they, who are engaged in low and grovelling pursuits, can 



650 DEMOS THENES. 

entertain great and generous sentiments. No ! Such as their employments 
are, so must their dispositions prove. And now I call heaven to witness, 
that it will not surprise me if I suffer more, by mentioning this your condi- 
tion, than they who have involved you in it ! Freedom of speech you do 
not allow on all occasions, and that you have now admitted it excites my 
wonder. 

But if you will at length be prevailed on to change your conduct ; if you 
will take the field, and act worthy of Athenians ; if these redundant sums 
which you receive at home be applied to the advancement of your affairs 
abroad ; perhaps, my countrymen ! perhaps some instance of consummate 
good fortune may attend you, and ye may become so happy as to despise 
those pittances, which are like the morsels that a physician allows his pa- 
tient. For these do not restore his vigour, but just keep him from dying. 
So, your distributions cannot serve any valuable purpose, but are just suffi- 
cient to divert your attention from all other things, and thus increase the in- 
dolence of every one among you. 

But I shall be asked, What then ! is it your opinion that these sums 
should pay our army ? — And besides this, that the state should be regu- 
lated in such a manner, that every one may have his share of public business, 
and approve himself a useful citizen, on what occasion soever his aid may 
be required. Is it in his power to live in peace ? He will live here with 
greater dignity while these supplies prevent him from being tempted by in- 
digence to anything dishonourable. Is he called forth by an emergency like 
the present ? Let him discharge that sacred duty which he owes to his 
country, by applying these sums to his support in the field. Is there a man 
among you past the age of service ? Let him, by inspecting and conducting 
the public business, regularly merit his share of the distributions which he 
now receives, without any duty enjoined, or any return made to the com- 
munity. And thus, with scarcely any alteration, either of abolishing or in- 
novating, all irregularities are removed, and the state completely settled, by 
appointing one general regulation, which shall entitle our citizens to receive, 
and at the same time oblige them to take arms, to administer justice, to act 
in all cases as their time of life and our affairs require. But it never hath, 
nor could it have, been moved by me, that the rewards of the diligent and 
active should be bestowed on the useless citizen ; or that you should sit 
here, supine, languid, and irresolute, listening to the exploits of some gen- 
eral's foreign troops (for thus it is at present). — Not that I would reflect on 
him who serves you in any instance. But you yourselves, Athenians! should 
perform those services for which you heap honours upon others ; and not 
recede from that illustrious rank of virtue, the price of all the glorious 
toils of your ancestors, and by them bequeathed to you. 

Thus have I laid before you the chief points in which I think you inter- 
ested. It is your part to embrace that opinion which the welfare of the 
state in general, and that of every single member, recommends to your ac- 
ceptance. 

FROM THE ORATION ON THE CROWN. 

Such being the nature of the controversy, I beseech you all alike to listen 
to my defence to this accusation with the fairness which the laws require. 
Those laws, established long ago by Solon, who was your well-wisher and a 
friend of the people, were thought by him not only to be binding by reason 



ORATION ON THE CROWN. 651 

of their inscription, but because you were sworn to observe them. Not that, 
as it seems to me, he distrusted you in so causing you to be sworn, but that 
he foresaw that the accused could never escape the enmities and malice 
in which the strength of the prosecutor, from being allowed to speak 
first, lies, unless each one of the jury, guarding his probity by an appeal to 
the gods, should listen favourably and justly to what should be asserted 
by the defence, and in the same spirit of impartiality to both sides enter 
upon an examination of the whole cause. Since I am about to give, then, as 
it would seem, an account as well of my whole private life as of my public 
career, I desire, as in the outset, to appeal again to the immortal gods, and 
in presence of you all I implore them first to direct you to show to me 
in this contest the same kindness which I have ever felt to you and to your 
city ; next, that they will inspire you so to pass upon this prosecution as 
shall redound to your common credit, and to the elevation of the character 
of each one of you. 

Had ^Eschines merely followed in the line of his attack the matters upon 
which he has founded the prosecution, I could have readily defended the 
preliminary decree ; but since he has, in unmeasured speech, gone over many 
other things, scattering the foulest abuse upon me, it is necessary and proper 
that I should first briefly reply to these, lest some of you, led astray by such 
foreign matters, might hear me with disfavor upon the merits of the charge 
itself. 

See how fairly and directly I shall answer all that this man has so slan- 
derously alleged against my private life. If you have known me to be such 
as he accuses me, — and I have lived my whole life among you, — permit not 
my voice to be heard, no matter how well I have managed public affairs, but 
rise and condemn me on the spot. If, on the other hand, you believe and 
know me to be better and of better descent than my accuser, and — not to 
speak too presumptuously — that I and mine are inferior to no respectable 
citizens, then disregard everything which he has said about my public life, 
since it will be apparent he has falsified in everything. I shall only ask you 
to shew me now the same kindness which you have always shewn in the past 
in the many contests in which I have been engaged. But malicious as you 
are, ^Eschines, you must be very simple to think I shall now pass by all that 
you have said about my political course, and begin by taking up your abuse 
of my private character. I shall do nothing of the kind. T am not quite so 
absurd. I shall first notice your falsehoods and slanders about my public 
life ; and afterwards touch upon the scurrilous abuse you have been pouring 

out so freely upon me, should the jurors wish to hear me about it. 

********* 

Philip, having thus by these means embroiled the cities, puffed up by the 
decrees and his answers to them, advanced with his forces against Elatea 
and took possession of it, thinking that happen what might, you and the 
Thebans would never be united. Though you ail know the alarm which 
this caused to Athens, hear from me a few words about it, and these only the 
most necessary. It was evening — A messenger arrived to inform the Presi- 
dents that Elatea was taken. Immediately rising from supper, some of 
them drove from their tents those who were engaged in traffic in the market- 
place, and set fire to the booths ; whilst others sent for the generals, and 
called out the trumpeter : great was the excitement in the city. The next 
morning at daybreak the Presidents called the Council together in their 
Chamber, and you all assembled in public meeting ; — before the Council 



652 DEMOSTHENES. 

had advised or offered anything for consideration, every deme was seated 
in its place upon the hill-side. When the Council arrived, and the Presi- 
dents proclaimed the news, and introduced the messenger who spoke out 
his message, the herald demanded, " Who desires to address the meeting ? " 
No one stood forth. After the herald had many times made the same 
demand, no one responded, although all the generals, all the orators were 
present, and their country by her common voice called upon each citizen 
to advise concerning her safety : for when the herald lifted up his voice, 
according to law, it is right to call it the common voice of our country. If 
it behooved all who desired the salvation of their country to come forward, 
all of you and the rest of the Athenians would have stood up, and mounted 
the platform ; for all, I well know, desired her salvation. Had it concerned 
the rich in particular, the three hundred would have risen up. Had it con- 
cerned those who were both warmly attached to their country and also 
wealthy, they who immediately afterwards gave largely for the common 
interests would have been there, for they gave from patriotism as well as 
wealth. But, as it appeared, the day and the occasion required not merely 
a rich and patriotic citizen, but one who had followed the subject from the 
very beginning, and could correctly understand why it was that Philip was 
thus acting, and what was his ulterior purpose. He who was ignorant of 
this, or who had not followed it carefully for a long time, was totally unfit, 
notwithstanding his patriotism and his wealth, either to see what it was 
necessary to do, or to advise you how to do it. 

/was the man who appeared on that day, and who, ascending the plat- 
form, addressed you. What I then told you, you should now listen to 
attentively for two reasons : first, that you may know that I alone, of all the 
orators and counsellors, did not desert the patriot's post in that hour of 
danger, but both by speech and written decrees advised what was most 
useful to you in your time of peril ; next, because by spending a little time 
upon this you will much more readily comprehend all the rest of the policy 
of the day. I spoke as follows : " Those persons, I thought, who were 
greatly troubled at the Thebans being under Philip's control, ignored the 
real state of things, for I well knew that if this had been the case we should 
have not only heard of Philip being in Elatea, but on our very borders. I 
was clearly, however, of opinion that he was coming to Thebes to bring this 
about. — How the matter now stands," I said, " hear from me. 

" Philip has won over many of the Thebans by bribing some and deceiv- 
ing others : those, however, who have withstood him from the first, and 
are now opposed to him, he will in no wise be able to gain. What, then, 
is his purpose, and why has he occupied Elatea ? By making a great shew 
of strength and displaying his arms he has raised up and inspired confi- 
dence to his adherents, and to the same extent depressed his enemies. He 
will thus compel these last either to join him through fear, which they do 
not wish to do, or they will be crushed out completely. If, therefore," said 
I, " we are now disposed to remember the old offences of the Thebans 
against us, and to distrust them as enemies, we shall be doing exactly what 
Philip wants ; and I fear that even those of them who are now unfriendly 
will join him, and then all having Philippized with one consent, he and they 
will march together against Attica. 

" If you will listen to me, and look dispassionately at what I am going to 
propose, I think I can shew what is best to be done, and remove the present 
danger from the city. What, then, do I propose ? First of all dispel 



ORATION ON .THE CROWN. 653 

your present apprehension, and feel and fear for the Thebans. The 
danger is much nearer to them than to us, for to them the peril is im- 
mediate. Next, let all who are able march at once with the cavalry to 
Eleusis, that every one may see you are in arms. Your partisans in Thebes 
will thus be enabled to speak out freely on the right side equally with their 
opponents, when they know that while there is a force at Elatea to back up 
the traitors who have sold their country to Philip, you are prepared to stand 
by them and assist them, should any one attack them, while they desire to 
contend for their country's freedom. 

" Further, I recommend that ten ambassadors be chosen, with equal 
power with the generals, to fix the time for going thither and for the march 
out. When the ambassadors shall reach Thebes, how do I propose the 
question shall be dealt with ? Give me here your earnest attention. En- 
deavor to obtain nothing from the Thebans (to attempt it at such a time 
would be base), but say to them we have come to aid them, if they desire 
it, in their time of extreme peril, as we foresee better than they what is 
going to happen. Should they accept our offer, and hearken to us, we shall 
have obtained what we wish, and our conduct will wear a color worthy of 
the city ; should we be unsuccessful, then they will have themselves to 
blame for having mismanaged their business, and we shall have done noth- 
ing mean or dishonorable." 

Having thus spoken, and much more to the same effect, I descended and 
sat down. Every one concurred. Not a dissenting voice was heard. I not 
only spoke thus, but I wrote the decree ; I not only wrote the decree, but I 
went on the embassy ; I not only went on the embassy, but I persuaded the 
Thebans. I went through with everything from the beginning to the end, 
and gave myself up entirely to you, in the existing danger to the City. 
Bring me the decree which was then passed. 

********* 

Since, however, ^Eschines insists so strongly upon the result, I desire to 
enounce a proposition which may at first seem paradoxical. Do not, in the 
name of Jupiter and all the gods, be astounded at it because it seems 
extreme, but listen without prejudice to what I am about to say. Had the 
issue been already known to you all, — had all foreseen it, and had you, 
a^Eschines, bawled yourself hoarse in proclaiming it, — although you uttered 
not a whisper, — even then the city should not have hesitated to undertake 
what she did, having regard to her true glory, to our ancestors, to posterity. 
Now indeed she appears to have been unsuccessful, which is a common 
chance, when the gods so will it. But then she would have incurred the 
reproach of delivering over the Greeks to Philip, if after claiming the head- 
ship of all Greece she had voluntarily descended from it. Had she then 
resigned without a struggle that which our forefathers spared no dangers 
to achieve, who would not then have spit upon you, ^Eschines, — not upon 
me, not upon the city ? With what eyes, good God, could we have looked 
upon strangers visiting the city, had the result been what it is and Philip 
been chosen the lord and master of us all, the rest of our countrymen, with- 
out us, contesting his claim? Especially when in bygone days our 
city had shrunk from no danger in the cause of honor, rather than repose 
in an inglorious security. What Greek indeed, what barbarian does not 
know that the Thebans, and the Lacedemonians before them all-powerful, 
and the Persian king himself, would thankfully and readily have permitted 
Athens to take what she wished and to keep her own, had she been willing 



654 DEMOSTHENES. 

to obey the behests of the stranger and suffer him to assume the command 
of Greece ? But such things, as it seemed to the Athenians of those days, 
were neither patriotic, nor natural, nor supportable ; nor could any one in 
all past time have prevailed upon the City to succumb to the powerful evil- 
doer, sitting down in safe submission. No, she ever encountered every 
peril, in the contention for the first place, and for honor and glory. And 
you, yourselves, regard this conduct as so august, and as so conformable to 
your own thoughts and feelings, that those of your ancestors who have so 
acted are held by you in the highest esteem. And properly : for who does 
not admire the virtue of the men who preferred to quit their City and their 
country, and embark upon their ships, rather than endure servitude, elect- 
ing to their command Themistocles, who had so counselled them ; nay, 
even stoning to death Kyrsilus, who had advised submission : — not only 
him, but your wives also putting his wife to death. Those Athenians sought 
not an orator or a general by whom they might be enslaved, they preferred 
not to live, unless they could live free. Each one of them believed that he 
was born, not only for his father and his mother, but for his country also. — 
And the difference is this. — He who thinks that he is born for his parents 
only, waits for his appointed and natural end : but he who thinks he belongs 
to his country also, prefers to die rather than to see her enslaved, and fears 
more than death itself, the insults and dishonor which must be borne when 
his city is enthralled. Were I to assert that it was I who had induced you to 
adopt resolves worthy of your ancestors, there is none who might not justly 
reprove me. I now proclaim that these resolves were your own, and 'that 
the same opinions were held by the City before my time. I only say that 
some of the credit from each of these measures should be given to me. But 
this fellow, who finds fault with everything, and who is instigating you to 
condemn me as the author of all the City's alarms and calamities, is striving 
to deprive me, indeed of this present honor, but is taking away from you 
your just eulogy for all time to come. For if you now convict Ctesiphon by 
condemning me as not having pursued the best policy, then will you appear 
to have erred, and not to have suffered what has happened from the injus- 
tice of Fortune. But you have not, you have not erred, Athenians, in 
encountering peril for the liberties and safety of your countrymen. I swear 
it by the spirits of your fathers, who went forth to face death at Marathon, 
by the men who stood in battle array at Plataea, by those who fought by 
sea at Salamis and Artemisium, by the throng of worthies now reposing in 
the public sepulchres,— all gallant men, — all buried by the City as deserving 
of the same honor. — Yes, ^Eschines, all, — not the victorious and success- 
ful only, — all : — and justly. For all alike did the work of noble men, 
and all* were subject to the influence of that fortune which the Divinity 
assigned to each. And you, accursed scribe, have been talking of the 
trophies and battles and great deeds of the olden time, wishing to rob 
me of the good opinion and honor of my countrymen. Which one 
of those deeds does this present controversy stand in need of ? But, 
oh third-rate actor, when the City's leadership of Greece was in question, 
in what disposition did it become me to advise when I arose to speak ? 
Was it to counsel something unworthy of these our citizens ? — I had 
been justly put to death had I done so ! — My fellow citizens, you should in 
nowise deliberate in the same manner in a private controversy and upon a 
public question. In matters of every day life you must be governed by the 
particular facts and the laws applicable to them ; in affairs of State you 



ORATION ON THE CROWN. 655 

must judge in a spirit worthy of your ancestors. And when you are called 

to decide public questions, each one of you, along with his badge and staff 

of office, must take up the spirit of the City, if you deem it your duty to act 

worthily of your ancestors. 

********* 

When the Commonwealth was able to choose the best course, and when 
to strive for its advantage in public affairs was a matter of emulation with 
all, I counselled most wisely, and by my decrees and my laws and my em- 
bassies everything was directed ; and you, none of you, were to be found 
anywhere, unless it was necessary to do the State a mischief. When adver- 
sity came, and there was no longer a searching out for counsellors, but for 
men who were working for those behind them, who were ready to prostitute 
themselves for pay against their country, and to flatter the stranger, then 
you and your fellows came forth radiant, and great, and splendid, — and I, 
I admit it, was very low, but still your friend, — while these men were not. 
Two qualities, Athenians, an upright statesman should possess, — and I thus 
speak as I am speaking of myself to avoid being invidious, — when in power, 
he should advocate a policy both honorable and lofty ; and at all times, 
and in all contingencies, he should be loyal to his country. This last 
quality is native to the heart, — power and strength depend upon other 
things, — and this last you have always found abiding in me. Although 
my person was demanded by the stranger, although cited before the Am- 
phictyonic Council, although harassed by many prosecutions, although 
hounded by these miscreants who pursued me like wild beasts, never 
have I faltered in my allegiance to you. From the beginning I chose 
unconditionally the straight and upright course in politics, — to uphold 
the honor, the power, the glory of my country, to increase them if I 
could, to live and have my being in them. When the stranger was 
successful, then did not I stalk about our public places with beaming 
face, rejoicing, stretching out the right hand to those who I hoped would 
report it over yonder. Neither did I with a shudder hear of any success 
to the City, walking with downcast eyes and sorrowful face, like these 
accursed men who speak ill of and belittle Athens (as if, in so doing, they did 
not speak ill of and belittle themselves), who look outside of their country, 
exulting in the success of the Stranger and the misfortunes of Greece, and 
asserting that we should take care, he shall always be successful. 

Let not, O ye Gods, let none of these things be approved by you. Rather 
inspire these men with a better mind and counsels ! But if they be incor- 
rigible, destroy and utterly confound them, whether they be on sea or 
land, — and to us grant the shortest period to the woes which have been 
fastened upon us, and provide for us an enduring salvation ! 



BOOK VI.— THE PHILOSOPHERS. 

CHAPTER I.— THE EARLY PHILOSOPHERS AND 

SOCRATES. 

I. — The Originality of Greek Philosophical Thought. The Earliest Philosophers and 
their Views, Physical and Metaphysical. The Ionians ; Pythagoras, and the 
Vague Report of His Life and Teachings ; Xenophanes, Heraclitus, Empedo- 
cles, etc. II. — The Atomists. Our Dependence on Aristotle for Information, so 
that we get but Glimpses of the Past, yet these Glimpses Attract Students. A.nax- 
agoras in his Relation to the Athenian Public. The Sophists in Athens. Their 
Evil Repute. The Growth of Individualism in Philosophy going on All Fours with 
its Spread in Literature. III. — Protagoras, his Ethical Teachings. Conservative 
Opposition to New Thought. The Cosmopolitanism of Philosophy Distasteful to 
Patriotic Greeks. Philosophy an Aristocratic Attribute, like Modern Letters, un- 
like Modern Science. IV. — The Fine Promises of the Sophists ; Rhetoric as a 
Cure for Life's Woes. Contempt for Science. V. — Socrates ; his Life. His Novel 
Aim, and Method of Instruction. His Ethical Teaching. His Practical Side. His 
Cross-examination of Civilization. The Mystery of his Death. His Following. 
The Cynic and Cyrenaic Schools. 

I. 

ALONGSIDE of the marvelous way in which the Greeks treated 
the various questions of life that came up before them for settle- 
ment or discussion, runs their continuous attempt to define what was 
the world in which they lived, and in what relation it stood to man. 
The effort to solve these difficult matters is the function of philoso- 
phy ; philosophers are those men who think that they have solved 
them. Their answers have been many in number and varied in kind. 
In Greece were laid the foundations on which most of the later men 
have worked, and it is interesting to study the different steps of phil- 
osophical thought in this country. Once more are we taken back to 
observing the growth of what is in good measure original work, for 
here, as in literature, there are no positive traces of the indebtedness 
of the Greek mind to foreign models. Those systems which bear the 
closest analogy to the result of Oriental thought grew up in Italy and 
Sicily, regions the furthest removed from the East. Isocrates, to be 
sure, asserts that Pythagoras drew some of his lessons from Egypt, 
but Isocrates is only a feeble authority on any matter of fact, and 
Plato and Aristotle fail to corroborate him. The analogies, such as 



DEBT OF GREEK PHILOSOPHY TO FOREIGN INFLUENCE. 657 

they are, may be satisfactorily accounted for as accidental coincidences 
of equally crude thought. And those moderns who have been led by 
the assertions of later Greeks to look abroad for the origin of their 
complicated and various philosophical systems have not succeeded in 
establishing their theories with anything like firmness. The Egyp- 
tians, the Hindoos, even the Chinese, have been at different times can- 
didates for the honor of inspiring the Greeks with their early philo- 
sophical conceptions, but in general it is supposed that there is no 
satisfactory proof of foreign aid. Indeed, the naturalness of the 
growth of the Greek philosophy, from the crudest and simplest be- 
ginnings through a uniform continuous development, renders the hy- 
pothesis at present superfluous. Whatever outside influences may 
have come in were at least absorbed without a jar that is now manifest 
to investigators. And, too, there is no trace in the philosophy of the 
Greeks of the theological character that is strongly marked in Oriental 
speculations on such subjects. Even if the hypothesis is not dis- 
proved, its necessity is not clear. So much seems probable ; it is not 
merely a result of the common disposition to exaggerate the powers 
of the Greeks that suggests their originality in this respect. 

Yet it must be said that the whole; question of the amount to which 
the Greeks were indebted to other civilizations is far from a final 
solution. In general the same spirit that led the Athenians to boast- 
ing that they sprang from the soil of Attica inspired them further to 
insist upon their independence of foreign aid, and this assumption has 
long been repeated by the moderns as part of the general disposition 
to ascribe a semi-miraculous quality to the power of the Greek mind. 
The discovery of the relationship of the languages of the Indo-Euro- 
pean family gave it a shock, and the more recent investigation of the 
remains of neighboring civilizations has tended to break up this 
long-lived exclusiveness. One discovery after another is made that 
shows how this or that bit was introduced into Greece from some ad- 
jacent country ; yesterday, it was some conventional figure in sculp- 
ture or painting ; to-day, it is the capital of the Ionic column, and 
every such instance renders more likely and more acceptable the 
notion that intellectual as well as artistic material was absorbed in 
the same fashion. But what survives is the Greek treatment of the 
material thus acquired, which is no less remarkable now than it ever 
was. Everything that came into their possession was bountifully de- 
veloped. 

Homer and Hesiod were without weight in the development of the 
earliest Greek philosophy ; their acceptance of life and presentation of 
its facts were anything but speculative. Indeed, the mythological 
explanation was at all times a serious foe to abstract thought, which 



6 5 8 



THE EARLY PHILOSOPHERS AND SOCRATES. 



could in no way accept the current explanation. There existed appa- 
rently in very early times a vast body of Orphic verse, as it was called 
after its alleged author, Orpheus, some of which, it is said, consisted 
of cosmogonies, but these early attempts perhaps did more in the 
way of arousing than of satisfying interest in philosophical questions. 
The border-line between a vague mythology and a crude cosmogony 
was very indistinct, and Pherecydes of Syros, apparently about 600 B.C., 
although his date is uncertain, with his prose theogony ; Epimenides, 
a contemporary, who described the world as issuing from night and 
air, were moving in the direction that was pursued by the earliest of 




CAPITAL OF THE IONIC COLUMN. 



those who first fairly deserved the name of philosophers. The Seven 
Wise Men were long reverenced for the utterance of the maxims 
which confront us at the dawn of every civilization expressing the eth- 
ical principles that are as fixed as physical laws ; but, as a Greek said, 
they were rather men of sound common-sense and law-givers than 
sages or philosophers. Yet it was one who is sometimes included in 
their number to whom the credit belongs of establishing the lines on 
which for a long time philosophy was to advance. This honor be- 
longs to Thales of Miletus, a city which we have already seen to be a 
center of intellectual activity. There he was born, as some say, in 
640 B.C., others 624, of Phoenician descent, and won great fame by his 
astronomical studies, which enabled him, to the amazement of his 
contemporaries, to foretell an eclipse. He is said to have traveled in 
Egypt, and possibly it was his observation of the dependence of that 



PRIMITIVE THEORIES OF PHYSICS. 



659 



country upon the annual inundation of the Nile that inspired him 
to utter his great principle that water was the original source of all 
things. The importance of this statement lay in the direct substitu- 
tion of a natural for a mythological explanation of the universe. 
Crude as it was, it was yet a beginning of science that was here 
expressed. The thought was not developed by Thales, who never 
explained in what way water 
was transformed into other sub- 
stances ; he remained contented 
with his guess, or with this 
reminiscence of the old Aryan 
myth concerning the stream 
of the storm cloud that fer- 
tilizes the earth, and he left the 
full expansion of it to his suc- 
cessors. 

The first of these was Anaxi- 
mander, also a Milesian, and, 
like Thales, a distinguished 
mathematician and astronomer. 
In his view of philosophy there 
lay outside of water, which he 
agreed with his predecessor in 
making important, a certain 
material Infinite wherefrom all 
waste and destruction were 
continually repaired. The ori- 
gin of the world was explained 
in this wise : warmth and cold 
made their separate appearance, 
and by their union produced 
moisture, whence arose the 

earth, that has gradually acquired firmness. Living beings were 
in time developed out of this moisture by means of heat. They first 
appeared in the form of fishes, acquiring their present form as the 
earth grew dryer. Anaximines, another Milesian, and somewhat 
later, took air for the first principle ; its condensation produced fire, 
wind, clouds, water, and the earth. The earth he held to be flat 
and circular, and to be upheld by the air. Other philosophers who 
held similar views were Idaeus of Himora and Diogenes of Apollonia 
in Crete. These men are generally classified together as members of 
one school, as the Ionic Natural Philosophers, from the tendency of 
their studies towards physics. 




THALES OF MILETUS. 



660 THE EARLY PHILOSOPHERS AND SOCRATES. 

Both of these men owed much to their predecessor, Anaximines, 
whose doctrine, as we have seen, bears much resemblance to that of 
Anaximander, except that he took for the beginning of all things Air. 
Obviously the process by which fire and stone are both brought from 
air must have been crudely explained, and the infancy of both physics 
and philosophy is clearly visible here in the similar work of his rivals. 
Diogenes of Apollonia carried out these physical explanations to a 
fuller development, but his chief merit appears to have been the 
enlargement of the empirical knowledge of nature. His philosophy 
had already been outgrown elsewhere by men starting from other 
principles, yet it will be noticed that in these vague explanations of 
the Ionic philosophers we find the rudiments of the guesses that have 
since been made concerning nature. What has been done in modern 
times is apparently a development of these ingenious hypotheses. 
Similarly, the metaphysics of the Greeks with its thin divisions, the 
Eleatic, that of Heraclitus, and the atomist, covers the ground of 
later metaphysicians ; for they decide respectively that being is every- 
thing and that change is only apparent ; that change is everything 
and being but an illusion ; and finally, that there is at once per- 
manence and change, permanence in the beings, perpetual change in 
their relations. 

An important school was that of the Pythagoreans, who were found 
mainly in Italy and Sicily. Its founder, Pythagoras of Samos, was 
born about 580 B.C., and he settled in the southern part of Italy about 
529 B.C. There is little known about this remarkable man, whose 
eminence made him the subject of a great deal of mythical gossip. 
He was an adherent of the Oriental doctrine of metempsychosis, and 
he exerted himself in behalf of political, religious, and philosophical 
advance. The book of sayings ascribed to him is apparently not wholly 
genuine. The most striking thing in his philosophy is the importance 
given to numbers. Everything, he maintained, was made out of 
numbers : they were the absolute principle of existence ; in them the 
finite and the infinite met. What this curious statement indicates, is 
the intense delight that these early students felt for the new science 
of mathematics, which seemed to them to unfold all the mysteries of 
nature. To their thinking it implied the existence of a universal har- 
mony towards which all human effort should be directed, and the 
influence of Pythagoras was distinctly exerted in this direction. He 
did not confine the functions of philosophy to the region of abstract 
thought, but by his ethical teaching he alone of the philosophers 
before Socrates gave instruction about the conduct of life. He thus 
contributed to the great movement of religious enthusiasm that passed 
through Hellas in the sixth century before Christ in connection with 



PHILOSOPHICAL SYSTEM OF THE PYTHAGOREANS. 66 1 

a general intellectual excitement that found expression in the unri- 
valed outburst of lyric verse. His teachings were in strict accord with 
the implied necessity of universal harmony that marked a distinct 
advance in philosophical conceptions ; and in science, too, he furthered 
progress by forming his hypotheses in accordance with this grand idea. 
His statement that the earth is a globe marks an obvious advance on 
earlier thought, and the notion of the harmony of the spheres fitted in 
most boldly with the general conception, for it assumed that the inter- 
vals between the celestial spheres corresponded with the relative 
length of springs when adjusted to produce harmonious tones. Some 
of the early Pythagoreans taught the rotation of the earth on its axis, 
and its movement around the sun ; even in antiquity, however, such 
views were regarded as heretical. The ethical teaching of this remark- 
able man was expressed by mathematical symbols ; thus, justice was 
defined as a square number, whereby there was expressed the corre- 
spondence of action and suffering. Alcmaeon, the Crotoniate, a 
pupil of Pythagoras, taught that the brain was the seat of the soul, 
and that all sensations were carried thither through canals from the 
organs of sensation. 

The Pythagoreans then, under the influence of a grand conception of 
the universe, were enabled to form most vivid and ingenious scientific 
hypotheses, and to give ethical teaching an apparent resting-place in 
science, such as the world had not known. The philosophical notion 
of the value of numbers, which was the corner-stone of the whole sys- 
tem, in time fell away, or rather perhaps developed into the science 
of mathematics. 

Every exposition of the philosophy of Pythagoras and of his school 
is complicated by the extremely uncertain nature of the information 
that requires to be sifted and arranged. There is a vast abundance of 
it ; but, starting with the most meager supply, it grows in bulk the 
further it gets from the original sources, so that we find at last a huge 
mass of untrustworthy evidence. It is clear, however, that the notion 
of the numerical harmonies was a useful hypothesis by giving a cer- 
tain warrant to a large view of the universe, by accustoming men's 
minds to vast conceptions : it enabled them to form a certain notion 
of the coherence of various phenomena. The union of the disciples 
in a band, although it produced a great deal of political uneasiness, 
helped to convey in a definite form the sound ethical teachings of the 
leader of the school to a large number ; and the persecution which the 
society suffered served a good purpose in scattering the disciples, who 
carried their theories with them to other regions. 

His notion of the soul and of God can not be clearly determined, but 
even if the particulars are vague, the vastness and impressiveness are 




662 THE EARLY PHILOSOPHERS AND SOCRATES. 

clearly attested, and possibly the zeal and disposition that accompany 
the study of philosophy are as important as any other quality that it 
may possess. The Pythagoreans, even if they agreed that this state- 
ment was true about other systems, would, however, probably deny its 
applicability to themselves. 

The third school of philosophy, the Eleatic, was so called from 
Elea, in Italy, where it especially flourished. The founder of this new 
system was Xenophanes, who was born at Colophon, an Ionian town 
in Asia, about 620 B.C. It will be noticed that it is among the Ionians 
that the early philosophical studies began. Thales 
and his followers belonged to Miletus, Pythagoras 
was from Samos, an Ionian island, and Xenophanes, 
besides being an Ionian by birth, found a hearing in 
Elea, which was an Ionic colony. On the other 
hand, it was the Dorians who formed the adherents 
of Pythagoras. 

The great contribution of Xenophanes to philoso- 
phy was his conception of one single god, far above 
all human limitations, controlling everything by his 
xenophanes of elea. power. This view naturally met with great opposition 
from the polytheistic Greeks, and in his elegies, to 
which reference has been made (see p. 186), he denounced severely the 
current anthropomorphism. The seed which he sowed in his statement 
of the unity of God was further developed by his disciple Parmenides, of 
Elea, who flourished about the beginning of the fifth century before 
Christ. Like Xenophanes, he gave utterance to his philosophical con- 
ceptions in a poem, of which fragments have come down to us. He 
continually affirms that existence is, and that non-existence is not, that it 
can not be conceived of as existing, for thought is the same as being. 
He goes on to show that what is, can not come into being or go out from 
being : there is then no process of becoming, as some philosophers 
taught. The true nature of things may be solved by thought rather 
than by observation, which rests on the fallible evidence of the senses. 
The doctrines of Parmenides were defended by Zeno, of Elea, who 
was born about 490 B.C. He endeavored to defend his master by 
showing that the opposing views led to absurdity. The paradoxes 
that he invented still survive in the familiar proof that Achilles can 
not overtake the tortoise ; that a flying atom is at rest, for in every 
moment of time it occupies but one place, etc. Melissus of Samos 
tried to support Parmenides by direct proof. Doubtless the argu- 
ments of these men paved the way for the later discussions of the 
Sophists. 

That there was opportunity for argument is very certain, for philos- 



THE THEORIES OF HERACLITUS AND EMPEDOCLES. 663 

ophy would be unrecognizable if it did not present to the world the 
spectacle of absolutely contradictory views stoutly upheld by equally 
doughty antagonists. What Parmenides called wild absurdity was 
the very central truth of all things in the system of Heraclitus, of Eph- 
esus, who lived a few years earlier. He is known to posterity, that 
always likes to condense its knowledge into the most portable form, 
as the weeping philosopher, but his writings appear to justify one in 
thinking that he was more likely to inspire than to shed tears. Homer 
and Archilochus, he said, ought to be whipped out of public meet- 
ings. Much learning, he maintained, does not teach reason, else it 
would have taught Hesiod and Pythagoras, Xenophanes and Heca- 
taeus. The text of Mr. Matthew Arnold's lecture on Numbers might 
have been his statement that " the many are bad and the good are 
few." He opposed the Eleatic school by asserting that nature, the 
universe, was a continuous process of change : everything was forever 
becoming. In seeking for the primal element of the world, he sep- 
arated himself as far as possible from the Ionic physical philosophers, 
by naming fire as the primal essence. In some way water is condensed 
from fire, and earth from water. Then it turns again through water 
to fire, whence it again repeats the same step in a series of endless 
revolutions. Heraclitus would certainly not weep if he could read 
some books of modern science, and perhaps a wan smile would flicker 
over his face when he recalled his statement that war was the father 
and king of all things. He would be prepared to believe in the 
struggle for existence. 

A little later was Empedocles of Agrigentum, in Sicily, who was born 
about 500 B.C. The story of his life is in great measure a collection of 
wild legends that ascribe to him magical powers such as gathered about 
certain mediaeval philosophers. It is said that he claimed the power 
of controlling rain and drought, of providing immunity from the 
decay of old age, of checking disease, etc. His death is said to have 
been as strange as his life : according to one tradition, he was trans- 
lated from the earth like a divine being ; according to another, the 
basis of Mr. Matthew Arnold's Empedocles on ^Etna, he flung him- 
self into the crater of ^Etna. He left a statement of his philosophical 
creed in his poem concerning Nature, of which considerable fragments 
have come down to us, thus imitating Xenophanes and Parmenides, 
who naturally adopted this form of expression in the absence of any 
literary prose. The poem of Empedocles was much admired in an- 
tiquity : Aristotle called it Homeric, and Lucretius praised it warmly, 
as something nearly divine. What is left, however, fails to arouse the 
enthusiasm of modern readers to anything like the same extent. His 
belief, which falls half-way between those of the Eleatic and Ionian 



664 THE EARLY PHILOSOPHERS AND SOCRATES. 

schools, was that the material principles or " roots " of things were 
the four elements, earth, water, air, and fire, which were controlled 
by two abstract forces, a uniting love and a dispelling hate, which 
prevailed at different times. Thus, it will be noticed, he added earth 
to the materials already suggested by his various predecessors. The 
confusion between the opposing forces of love and hatred, and their 
mutual hostility, brought him to a position not wholly unlike that 
which has been defined as an early presentiment of the doctrine of 
evolution. This was, however, not so much an exact statement as a 
taunt from the opponents of Darwin, who contended (i) that his 
theories were not true, and (2) that they were trite, as was shown 
by the number of his unsound predecessors. 

Empedocles further maintained that we know the material and 
ideal elements of things through like material ideal elements that 
compose our minds, fire by fire, water by water, and so on ; thus, 
the processes of thought were materialized into the action of phys- 
ical elements. Indeed, like many of his predecessors, Empedocles 
worked in the line of physical rather than of philosophical research. 



II. 

Another late and important school of philosophy was that of the 
Atomists, which was founded by Leucippus and further developed by 
Democritus. Of Leucippus very little is known. Democritus was, 
according to his own statement, forty years younger than Anaxagoras, 
of whom mention is made later. Their theory placed as the center of 
all things, the full and the void; the first representing being, or some- 
thing, while the other is identified with not-being, or nothing. Every- 
thing which is, consists of primal, indivisible particles or atoms, differing 
from one another only geometrically, by form, position, and arrange- 
ment. Fire and soul, they maintained, were composed of round atoms. 
Sensation is due to material images issuing from objects and reaching 
the soul through the senses. The soul is the noblest part of man, 
and the highest good is happiness. 

While our definite information regarding all these philosophers is of 
the most meager kind, and is moreoverinjured by the fact that it comes 
to us mainly from Aristotle, who held very different views, it is yet 
impossible not to be struck by the importance of many of these early 
contributions to the subject. Especially is this the case in considering 
the philosophy of Democritus, whom the ancients regarded as the 
peer of Plato in respect of the simplicity and eloquence with which he 
expounded his views. We have left the merest fragments of his work, 



EXPLANATIONS OF THE UNIVERSE. 665 

but this seems to have covered a vast mass of subjects, especially in 
physics, and certain points may be gathered from two or three sen- 
tences of his. One, for example, is the famous statement that nothing 
comes from nothing and can return to nothing, which is one of the 
fundamental principles of modern physics, as indeed it was unani- 
mously held by all the early Greek philosophers that matter was 
eternal. Equally significant is another utterance : nothing happens 
by accident, but everything happens from some reason and by necessity, 
a principle that forbids the formation of hypotheses that require 
miracles to explain obscurities. " It is only in the mind that sweet- 
ness and bitterness, heat and cold, and color exist ; nothing actually 
exists but the atom and the void," is again a momentous statement 
of the impossibility of knowing the essences of things ; and in further 
developments of his thought we find evidence of the formation of the 
doctrine of something very like the modern notion of evolution, as 
we find it stated by Empedocles. 

While the mainspring of this earlier philosophy was physical study, 
it was of course not without reference to ethics, and here it taught a 
philosophy of happiness, of moderation, of peace. It was materialism 
that he taught, and materialism has been as much of a by-word as lib- 
erty, or reform, or anything else that has attacked people's prejudices, 
and the most important work of the Greek philosophers was in the 
direction of inculcating spiritualism ; but even in the heap of ruins 
that alone is left of the work of Democritus we may find the stamp 
of a great thinker, just as in a bit of architectural ornament it may 
yet be possible to detect the grace and beauty that went to the deco- 
ration of a whole city. Enough is left, at any rate, to convince us of 
a great ferment of thought and of vast theories, and to show that here, 
as everywhere, the Greek has been before us. 

Anaxagoras, of Clazomena in Asia Minor, was born about 500 B.C. ; 
he explained the universe as the product of an indefinite number of 
primitive substances, called by him the seeds of things, which under 
the influence of the divine mind grew from chaos into order and pro- 
duced the world. Thus, it will be remarked, he kept touch with the 
atomists ; and if he gave an unprecedented authority to Reason, or 
Nous, this was not yet so much a separate controlling power as a ben- 
eficial principle exerting itself not by choice, but by inherent virtue. 
It is interesting to notice that Anaxagoras, who lived for thirty years 
in Athens and was a friend of Pericles, incurred the hostility of the 
Athenians by his studies. To be sure, other causes led to this con- 
dition of things : the opposition of a good part of the public did not 
dare to express itself openly against the great statesman, and hence 



666 THE EARLY PHILOSOPHERS AND SOCRATES. 

contented itself by wounding him through his friends. Phidias was 
arrested on a charge of impiety, and died in a prison within the city 
which he had helped to make immortal ; and a decree against " as- 
tronomers and atheists " was evidently aimed at Anaxagoras. At any 
rate, such was his interpretation of it, and he withdrew to Lampsacus, 
where he passed the remainder of his life. The pretext for the perse- 
cution was readily found in the philosopher's conception of a ruling 
reason, a conception that it was difficult to harmonize with the cur- 
rent theology, and his interest in astronomy was not a thing to endear 
him to the Athenians, who had a keen admiration for their own in- 
telligence, and little sympathy for scientific study. We have seen 
how Aristophanes derided it, and even Socrates regarded it as at 
the best a waste of time, and probably as tainted by impiety. 
Moreover, the sun and moon still inspired much of the awe of the 
earlier Nature-worship, and the scientific statement that these objects 
were not divine beings, but bodies shining by original or reflected light, 
and so not wholly unlike the earth, sounded to the Athenians as some- 
thing like blasphemy. We must remember, too, that the superstitions 
of the Athenians were not peculiar to the time of St. Paul. We are so 
accustomed to the lavish adulation of the people of this city that we are 
led to regard them as miracles of tolerance and ripe intelligence, and 
to forget that their great men were the exception, and had perpetu- 
ally to struggle against the conservatism and bigotry of the majority. 
Moreover, even an earnest love of freedom did not necessarily mean 
toleration any more than it did among the Puritans in England or 
America, and that intellectual and artistic enthusiasm do not assure 
immunity from bigotry is a lesson as common in history as in private 
life. The skeptical teachings of the Sophists were the privilege of but 
a few ; the homogeneousness of Athenian society, which had been so 
important an element in its earlier greatness, was destroyed after the 
Peloponnesian War, and the expensiveness of the lessons of these 
costly teachers must have helped to divide society, as it is now divided 
in civilized races, into two distinct classes, the learned and the un- 
learned. Possibly a vague feeling of indignation with this partition 
counted for much of the wrath of Socrates and Plato with the de- 
tested Sophists. The populace did not share the aristocratic privilege 
of learned skepticism, but clung to the ancient religions, and with re- 
newed zeal in the days of Athenian adversity. Even apart from this 
influence, there was the strong historical value of mythology to which 
the Athenians were never tired of referring. Isocrates, like all the 
orators, uses as a foundation for his advice the legendary stories that 
delighted the Athenians ; we have seen ^Eschines teaching the my- 
thology to Philip, and a system that ignored this influence was sure to 



INTOLERANCE OF THE NEW PHILOSOPHICAL METHODS. 667 

be detested by many of them. They had no education that prepared 
them for such abstract notions, and the consciousness of their own 
intellectual superiority only hardened them against it. Consequently 
we see here the same intolerance that in a few years was to demand 
the sacrifice of Socrates, and it was under these difficulties that phi- 
losophy began to make itself felt in Athens. Perhaps this intolerance 
of science has had a more lasting effect than could have been imagined 
at the time or than has been thought since. 

Yet it must not be supposed that all these prejudices succeeded in 
closing Athens against the new learning, for nothing could be further 
from the truth. Pericles, as we have seen, was a friend of the philoso- 
phers and interested in their favorite study, and it speedily secured a 
place in this center of all intellectual interest. The natural sciences, 
too, began to be cultivated with interest and attention, for the eager 
minds of the Athenians could not remain indifferent to what was ex- 
citing the rest of the Hellenic world. Their city, then, became the 
home of philosophy ; its leaders assembled there from all quarters, — the 
pupils of Parmenides and Empedocles, the Sophists, all who were sow- 
ing the seeds of abstract thought, — and, by their mutual attrition and 
instruction, combined to form varied elements into a single vaster 
whole. Obviously what issued from these various and at times con- 
flicting causes was the natural resultant of the separate forces, and in 
the remoteness of the later philosophy from natural science, as well 
as in the nearly exclusive prominence given to pure thought as a 
means of establishing philosophy, it may be possible to trace the in- 
fluence of the intellectual subtlety of the ingenious Athenians. For 
them the exercise of the intellect was the highest privilege of man, 
and especially its exercise in ingenuity. Their active intelligence 
found the keenest delight in theorizing, discussing, arguing about 
any conceivable question, and from the moment that Athens ac- 
quired the intellectual leadership, philosophy lost its connection with 
physics and dealt with psychology and ethics. The Sophists who 
aided this change did not accomplish it by making over the Atheni- 
ans ; they simply turned away from the contradictory explanations of 
their predecessors and sought to find in men's minds the foundations 
of the laws governing human duties and actions. In so doing they 
moved in harmony with the general modification that we have seen 
illustrated in the literature. The whole tendency of the time was 
toward the perception of the importance of the human mind. We 
see yEschylus filling his plays with supernatural beings who control 
the whole action ; while Sophocles deals almost entirely with human 
beings and human actions, and in Thucydides, when compared with 
Herodotus, we perceive how much more attention he pays to men and 



668 THE EARLY PHILOSOPHERS AND SOCRATES. 

the consequences of their deeds than to the interference of the gods. 
Indeed, it would be easier to go further, and to say that in every 
period of great intellectual excitement the advance consists in a dis- 
tinct recognition of the importance of the individual ; it was so in the 
Renaissance and in the Romantic movement. In ancient Hellas the 
change was furthered by the influence of Athens, where the social 
habits of the people, their unending arguments, their interest in bright 
talk, as they helped the development of the drama, also brought phi- 
losophy out of the region of remote studies into that of oral discussion. 
Under the altered conditions the new art of rhetoric became inextri- 
cably involved with philosophy, which promised to unfold all its 
secrets to the subtlest arguer. The problems of philosophy aroused 
the attention of all, but they were impelled to handle them in their 
own fashion, through discussion, and rhetoric offered them a convenient 
instrument in the improved dialectics. With the general growth of 
individualism there was an increase in the authority of men's feelings, 
and over these obviously persuasion was most powerful. Was not the 
truth, they thought, more likely to be found here than in the myste- 
ries of nature, which not only eluded observation, but were also not 
to be investigated without impiety? That was a strong argument, 
especially with men whose religion preserved many traces of an out- 
grown nature-worship that in many of its forms had but little to do 
with morals, — little, that is to say, in comparison with Christianity and 
Buddhism. 



III. 

The magnitude of the change which the Sophists introduced by 
turning their backs upon the physical investigations of their prede- 
cessors, and by abandoning the study of external nature in order to 
examine the spiritual qualities of men, is very evident ; and among its 
leaders was Protagoras, who thus deserves mention as a precursor of 
Socrates. In his eyes matter was nothing, and, as he himself said, 
man was the measure of all things. This was the inspiring principle 
of the new philosophy, which in the hands of Socrates led to the 
contempt of abstract study except for purposes of rank utilitarianism, 
which was of vast importance in turning men's minds to ethical sub- 
jects, but was more truly a religious than a scientific movement. This 
was its great significance, and now what lies heavy on mankind is the 
enormous importance given by the Athenian philosophers, Socrates, 
Plato, and Aristotle, to words as distinguished from facts. They 
imagined that the existence of a word implied the existence of a thing. 



SOCIAL AND POLITICAL CHANGES EFFECTED BY PHILOSOPHY. 669 

with no material qualities, above and outside of all laws, in a pure 
vacuum. The change came, as we have seen, with the sense of the 
importance of the individual. 

The change in philosophy introduced new complexities in the life of 
the Greeks, as must always be the case in every society when advancing 
thought compels the sundering of old bonds that are venerated as 
part of the inheritance from older times. These new principles 
attacked directly and indirectly the two fundamental notions of Greek 
life : the anthropomorphic conception of the deities, by substituting 
a representation of unlimited divine forces, of which the recognized 
gods were but symbols ; and the political notion of the all-important 
state was attacked by their advocacy of a wider cosmopolitanism. 
The religious change we have already seen in the statement of the 
views of most of the philosophers already mentioned, and there are 
quite as many instances of the effect of philosophical reforms upon 
the political basis of society. Thus, to go back to the beginning, 
Thales of Miletus urged his fellow-countrymen in Ionia to form a 
senate at Teos, which should exercise control over all the twelve Ionic 
cities, which should be its demes, but the plan came to nothing, and 
they were separately overthrown by Croesus. Heraclitus was a firm 
adherent of the aristocratic party in Ephesus, and although these 
instances merely show perhaps what course of action most commended 
itself to cultivated men, and do not prove any viciousness peculiar to 
students of philosophy, we may see in the new disposition shown by 
nearly all of these to leave their uncongenial home and to live in 
Athens, a clear proof of their indifference to the narrow conditions on 
which the earlier society rested. Heraclitus and Democritus both 
found their way to that city, which, as we have seen, immediately 
after the Persian wars became the intellectual and artistic center of 
Greece. Anaxagoras, again, made it his home for thirty years, as one 
of the many resident aliens, who, unburdened by political duties, and 
powerless to exercise any of the rights of citizenship, yet enjoyed all 
the social privileges of that attractive spot. How different their 
condition was from that of the natives may be gathered from the fact 
that while the murder of a citizen was a capital offense, that of a resident 
alien was punished only by banishment. Naturally enough the pres- 
ence of these men, whose ability was notorious, aroused in time the 
jealousy of the Athenian citizens, and it was suspected at a very early 
date that they exercised a pernicious influence upon Pericles. We have 
seen that Anaxagoras was compelled to leave Athens by an accusation 
of this sort. In 411 B.C. Protagoras was accused of blasphemy, at a 
time when feeling was hot between the oligarchic party and the popu- 
lace, and later we shall see other instances of the existence of the 



67° THE EARLY PHILOSOPHERS AND SOCRATES. 

same hostility, notably, of course, in the case of Socrates. Contin- 
ually we shall find that the people disliked the philosophers, and 
although the accusation brought against these men was their dan- 
gerous influence on religion, it is yet very clear that this charge was 
a mere pretext, and that the animating feeling was one of political 
distrust and jealousy. Indeed one is tempted to conjecture that uni- 
versally religious persecutions and wars are politics in disguise ; 
certainly much might be said in defense of this view. 

It is readily seen that the patriotism of Greek citizens might be 
easily offended by the teachings of the philosophers with their advo- 
cacy of a wide cosmopolitanism. This was the note which they all 
sounded. Thus, Democritus, in one of the fragments of his work 
that has reached us, said that the whole world was the fatherland of a 
sturdy soul, and this remark was often re-echoed by his successors ; 
indeed it became a commonplace among the philosophers of both 
Greece and Rome. We find it attacked by Aristophanes in his 
Plutus and by Lysias in his speech against Philon, and its utterance 
may well have offended those who clung firmly to the conviction that 
the only hope for preservation lay in fidelity to the limited rule of the 
city. As the future history of Greece shows, the principle thus stated 
by the philosophers, who were merely the thinking men of the country, 
had to be worked out by the nation, and the result was the vast 
extent of Hellenic influence that survived the political decay of the 
country. The opposition to it only lamed the material unity of 
Hellas; its control of the intellectual authority of the Greeks was 
never impaired. Far from it, it remained one of the influences that 
formed an important contribution to the growth of Christianity. 

Another way in which it is well to regard the influence of the phi- 
losophers is this, that their teachings and authority, as has been men- 
tioned above, tended to the division of what had been a more or less 
homogeneous society into one that separated the learned from the 
ignorant. In the contest that is portrayed in the discussions of the 
orators, we find abundant evidence of the existence of a peace party 
that could not be aroused to interest in what seemed a futile struggle. 
The philosophers formed a sort of aristocratic body which asked only 
leisure for intellectual studies; by their side everything else seemed 
petty and disturbing. Opinions about these facts will differ; it is 
easy to mourn the apparent degeneracy of these men, and to regret that 
they refused to continue destructive wars, but perhaps it is better to 
notice how the fuller breath of a wider civilization was refusing to be 
held by the old bonds. The fact that the change happened is a proof 
that it was inevitable, and he is a bold man who dares to wish that he 
could make history over again. Before proceeding far, he will prob- 



FOUNDATIONS OF GREEK INFLUENCE ON MODERN THOUGHT. 671 

ably see that human affairs are very complicated things, especially 
when he considers how double-edged are the half-truths which are all 
that it is vouchsafed men to see in occasional glimpses. 

This whole period was one that was beset by the most intricate 
problems, and the way in which their answer was determined was one 
of vast importance to future ages. When we remember that it is from 
what are called the degenerate days of Greece that the greater part of 
the influence of that country on later civilization is derived, we may 
become aware to what an extent the rhetorical way of looking at his- 
tory as a picturesque object has outweighed the importance of a com- 
plete record. The brilliancy of execution has almost alone attracted 
historians, and after Plato and Aristotle the student's way can be made 
only by groping. The loss of political power has been adjudged a 
proper date for the interruption of all interest in this wonderful people, 
but it was then that they were beginning their work in Alexandria and 
throughout the Roman empire, laying the foundations of modern 
thought. Literary men have had the ear of the public, and they have 
naturally enough lost no opportunity of pointing out their own im- 
portance ; yet the world does not live on literature alone, and when 
this languished, the processes of thought were not extinct ; the past 
was breaking up and the future was forming. This may have been a 
silent process, but we all know of those facts which come under our 
own observation that it is not merely the melodramatic moments that 
are of importance, and this is true of everything. Charm of style is 
not the only element that is deserving of study. 

In the efforts of philosophy to establish itself we may see sufficient 
evidence of a bitter struggle between what seemed to be the facts of 
life and what must have appeared to many like an impracticable ideal. 
To the success of this last we may possibly ascribe some of the long- 
lived abstract condition of metaphysics in its remoteness from other 
sources of knowledge than introspection, and its contempt of science. 
Philosophers have never as a class thought little of themselves, and 
they have perhaps known a certain exultation in the reflection that 
the subject of their studies was something infinitely higher in their 
opinion than mere concrete objects which science did not despise. In 
fact, however, they have been repaid at times in their own coin, and 
have themselves suffered from the contempt which they felt for 
everything but their favorite study. Yet in no case is contempt a fruit- 
ful or commendable feeling, and it is the greatest glory of science that 
it tends to destroy the unworthy habit of drawing what may be called 
social distinctions in the universe which students must observe under 
peril of losing caste. 



672 THE EARLY PHILOSOPHERS AND SOCRATES. 



IV. 

It was not moral turpitude or intellectual weakness that inspired 
the Greeks in following a course that has been so full of influence upon 
modern thought ; this was rather due to a natural dissatisfaction with 
the crude gropings of men of science and an equally natural confidence 
in the excellent weapon that lay ready to hand. By the side of its 
apparent incompetence they could place the philosophy which seemed 
to offer almost unlimited power to the human intellect, in the form of 
an art which, it was asserted, could be taught to almost any one. If 
men, endowed with many brilliant qualities, asserted that they could 
teach virtue, it was only natural that those who were eager to learn 
the principles of virtue should have been attracted by these state- 
ments. Such, at least, was the case here, and the temporary success 
of the Sophists is as readily explicable as their subsequent failure. The 
new rhetoric, with its abundance of quibbles, was but a sign of the 
changes that they hoped to introduce. What they did was to help 
the modification of Greek thought regarding all the main questions of 
life. Religion, civil duty, patriotism, science, the whole duty of man, 
became the subject of perpetual discussion in the intellectual ferment 
that was making itself felt in Greece: Protagoras, one of the most 
popular, was an avowed agnostic. When he came to Athens it was 
at the house of Euripides that he began to read out of one of his 
works, and opened with these words : " I can not tell whether the 
gods exist or not ; life is too short for such difficult investigations." 
This statement at once created great excitement ; the book was pub- 
licly burned, and its circulation forbidden. The author himself left the 
city, and perished by shipwreck on his way to Sicily. Yet words like 
these from one high in authority survive public burning, and the 
death of the man who utters them. Gorgias went even further. He 
wrote a book, On Nature or Nothing, in which he maintained, first, 
that nothing exists ; secondly, that if anything does exist, we can not 
know it ; thirdly, that if we know it, we can not possibly communicate 
our knowledge to others. Prodicus and Hippiashad favored scientific 
study; the skepticism of Protagoras and Gorgias attacked science as 
much as religion, and they were the mouthpiece of a section of society 
that sneered at the alleged truths of science and at the old ideals 
which seemed to perish with the fables about the gods. 

While men's interests were thus rapidly widening, it is not sur- 
prising that for a time men's hopes should have turned with some- 
thing like rapture to the art of dialectics as the source from which 



674 THE EARLY PHILOSOPHERS AND SOCRATES. 

true light should come. In the first place, discussion was the very 
life-blood of Athens ; poetry and eloquence had long formed its main 
interests, and with these new teachers it seemed as if a solution for 
all problems was found which should wring from the universe its baf- 
fling secret. In the ingenuities of controversy it was hoped that a 
method was established that would remove all difficulties. The shat- 
tering of the old religious faith is clearly seen in the plays of Euripi- 
des, who alternates between the conflicting views of his predecessors 
and his contemporaries. At times he adjudges men's fate to be simply 
the result of their own actions, the stories of the gods he accepts at 
one moment to deny at the next. He disapproves of the statement 
that the power of prophecy exists : in a word, the old belief is crum- 
bling like a thing outworn. While on the one hand the Greek religion 
Avas over-ripe, science had not reached sufficient maturity to stand a 
rigorous examination or to serve as a basis for an altered view of the 
universe, and neither could endure comparison with the brilliant 
results that promised to follow the new use of argument and discus- 
sion. Rhetorical skill easily held the first place. We have seen the 
practical results of the teachings of the Sophists in the brilliant prose 
literature of Greece, and their power as a means of culture was 
thought to be even greater. Consequently it developed a tendency 
to spin webs in the thin air, wholly removed from any solid basis, and 
it was this tendency which has given the Sophists their bad name. 
They encouraged a growth which had no roots, and although the un- 
wisdom of this conduct is now perfectly plain, it is not necessary to 
suppose that it was the result of a deliberate preference of the wrong ; 
it was a mistake, not a crime, and a mistake that arose from the ex- 
aggeration of the power of rhetoric. Much of the opprobrium that 
attaches to their names serves but to illustrate the long life that be- 
longs to abuse, and many of the charges brought against them were, 
like much fault-finding, mere pretexts. Some hated them merely for 
one of the commonest causes of hatred : for teaching new things ; 
others, for the non-performance of their brilliant promises. Yet, so 
confused is the action of human justice, it was their most serious foe, 
Socrates, who endured persecution and became a scapegoat for the 
whole band. 



THE LIFE OF SOCRATES 



675 



V. 

This remarkable man was born in Athens about 469 B.C. His 
father, Sophroniseus, was a sculptor ; his mother, Phsenarete, was a 
midwife. In his early years Socrates followed the occupation of his 
father, with what success we are not told, but later he abandoned 
that occupation to become a public teacher. That the gain of philos- 
ophy was not commonly thought to be a loss for sculpture, may be 
conjectured from the fact that the Graces represented in this illus- 




THE GRACES ASCRIBED TO SOCRATES. 



tration were ascribed, whether accurately or not is uncertain, to 
Socrates. In person he was singularly unattractive ; his rare and 
delicate mind was enclosed in a graceless body that reminded be- 
holders of a satyr. Yet if he lacked beauty, he possessed strength 
and was capable, beyond most men, of exposure and hardship ; he 
was tolerant of both abstinence and what others would have thought 
excess. He passed his entire life in Athens, except when called 



676 THE EARLY PHILOSOPHERS AND SOCRATES. 

away for brief seasons on military duties. He lived there peacefully 
enough, never taking part in any lawsuit until the one which termi- 
nated in his condemnation to death. 

Of his life in Athens we know a great deal from Xenophon and 



Plato, for the Memorabilia of Xenophon, of which mention has been 
made above, besides being the earliest personal memoir, is most 
abundant in information. It presents to us a vivid picture of Socrates 
in his daily life, arguing and discussing with any who cared to listen 



METHOD OF SOCRATES' TEACHING. 677 

to him. Of the method of his conversation, striking as it is, but little 
need be said. He was an Athenian of the Athenians, a representa- 
tive of that wonderful people, who in his limitations, as in his excel- 
lence, illustrates many of their most prominent qualities. That he 
wrought his work by means of talk in the market-place was simply a 
continuation of the fixed habit of his fellow-citizens, as much as was 
Dr. Johnson's talk over the supper-table, although in making it the 
aim of his life we may perhaps suppose that Socrates was consciously 
reproving the Sophists for giving instruction for hire. The reports 
of his remarks given us by Xenophon and Plato make very clear the 
courtesy of the Athenians and their quickness and subtlety. The 
personal note of the great philosopher may be distinguished in the 
rigid cross-examination to which he subjected those who came in his 
way. This cross-examination, however, was not of his invention, 
although he was doubtless fully aware of its contrast to the didactic 
instruction of many of the Sophists and to the offers of some of their 
number to answer any questions that might be put to them. It was 
the old-time method of the law-courts which led the victim down a 
series of damaging admissions to a black pit of confusion and tardy 
remorse. It had flourished in the tragedies and now made its way 
into philosophy, where under the guise of simplicity Socrates would 
ask the most baffling questions with no other design apparent than 
simple curiosity. This method certainly brought philosophy down to 
the comprehension of the whole people instead of reserving it for the 
fortunate few, and by his illustrations and images, which seem actually 
taken from life, as if the real scenes caught his eye while he was 
talking, he simplified what to many must have appeared a remote and 
obscure subject. In a way, the talk of Socrates reminds the reader of 
that of Dr. Johnson, whose vivid and drastic wit in a somewhat similar 
way cut through pretense and exaggeration. Few other likenesses 
suggest themselves, for commonly the man who is busy denouncing 
these qualities in others is illustrating them in himself, and here the 
contrast between the subtle questions of Socrates and the violent affirm- 
ations of Johnson warns us against the exaggeration of points of 
resemblance. Yet in the provinciality of the two men it is easy to see 
a certain agreement, and while there are provinces and provinces, even 
in Athens there already existed a distinct aversion to natural science as 
well as to cloudy philosophy, both marked traits in Socrates. In his 
aim, which was to make men good citizens, we see at once the limit as 
well as the merit of his designs. 

What he helped to do was to carry on the movement of philo- 
sophical thought toward ethics, to give it a practical bent ; as Cicero 
said, " he called philosophy down from the heavens to earth, and 



678 THE EARLY PHILOSOPHERS AND SOCRATES. 

introduced it into the cities and houses of men, compelling men to 
inquire concerning life and morals and things good and evil." Part 
of the change was doubtless due to the dissatisfaction that the 
Athenians felt for misty thought and what seemed to them unprofit- 
able studies. 

Lucidity was the object of their whole intellectual training. By 
their command of it they became the chosen interpreters of the Greek 
people, and in the early physical philosophy they saw something that 
fascinated them as little as the philosophy of Hegel has ever fascinated 
the French. With this feeling, Socrates was forever seeking defini- 
tions from those who were preparing to enwrap him in long disquisi- 
tions, and were ready to let abundant general principles take the 
place of precise statement. Half of the imposing machinery of the 
philosophers was disabled by this ingenious attack which seemed to 
be merely an ingenuous defense. In the same way, by limiting the 
functions of philosophy to human, indeed, one might almost say, to 
social interests, he kept close to that side of the Athenian character 
which was indubitably averse to far-straying adventuresomeness, a 
certain philistinism, the severe might call it. The insistence upon 
lucidity has a tendency to clip the wings of speculation, as we may see 
in the history of French thought, especially in contrast with that of 
German philosophy. 

So much at least we are justified in saying, when we notice how 
great was the influence of Socrates on the subsequent development 
of philosophy among the Athenians, how incessantly he introduced 
a practical test into the examination of his powerful rivals. It is 
sufficiently obvious that his method was not universally popular, to 
speak mildly, but its fruitfulness is undeniable. By bringing philos- 
ophy into line with ethics, he sobered men who were intoxicated by 
what they had learned from the Sophists, and by his constant applica- 
tion of their principles to the welfare of the state, he kept true in the 
main to the fundamental notions of the Greeks concerning civic duty. 
He did his best to adapt and correct these outside theories to possible 
use ; they floated in the air, and he, by forcing them to acquire citizen- 
ship in Athens, gave them a place, when properly modified, in the 
philosophy of the world. And in the peculiar character of his work 
we may doubtless see an exaggeration of the quality most unlike the 
easy flight of the Sophists, who could easily ignore awkward and dis- 
turbing facts. The homeliness of his simplicity is a vivid exposition 
of the faults which he was attacking. 

With what excellent effect Socrates applies his method we may see 
illustrated in Xenophon's account of his talk with the youthful Glauco, 
who attempted to address the public assembly before he was twenty 



THE EXAMINATION OF GLAUCO. 



679 



years old. Every citizen had, to be sure, the right of speaking, but 
idle talkers were liable to be forcibly removed by the police when it 
became evident that their words were vain. Glauco had suffered this 
ignominious expulsion more than once, but had persisted in repeating 





ATHENIAN CITIZENS. 



the experiment against the advice of his friends, when Socrates under- 
took to reason with him. After a few compliments the philosopher 
opened the discussion by asking Glauco a few practical questions 
about statesmanship. Would Glauco tell him the current revenue of 
Athens and whence it was derived ? No, he had never examined the 
matter. Then perhaps he had some plan for diminishing expenses? 
No, he proposed nothing of the kind. But he did think that the ene- 
mies of Athens might be made to contribute to the wealth of that 
city. Ah, if they are going to war, Glauco can doubtless enumerate 
the extent of the Athenian forces? No, he has forgotten at the mo- 
ment. But doubtless it is written down somewhere ? No, it is not. 
And so Socrates goes on, dexterously permitting his interlocutor to 



680 THE EARLY PHILOSOPHERS AND SOCRATES. 

expose his ignorance and incompetence. What he did here with prac- 
tical matters he did continually with subjects of abstract thought, cut- 
ting through idleness and vanity with his homely wit, not inflicting capi- 
tal punishment on those whom he encountered, but letting them hang 
themselves with their own rope. All of this was far from the vague 
discussions of the universe and the origin and real nature of all things 
which had been agitating his predecessors, and Socrates further sepa- 
rated himself from them by his frank acceptance of the popular reli- 
gion. He held that the gods were wise, beneficent beings, who had 
established the order of things in the universe for useful ends, that 
they made known their wishes through the oracles, and that they were 
to be worshiped by righteous living and reverence, rather than by ex- 
travagant sacrifices. The soul he looked upon as something divine in 
its origin and nature, and apparently he regarded it as immortal. The 
secret of his lessons lay in the enforcement of knowledge as the root 
of wise thought and wise actions. Only by knowing well what was 
justice, or temperance, or virtue of any sort, could one act virtuously, 
and the definitions he sought by first clearing away false notions, by 
analysis, and then synthetically he bound into one whole the truths 
that had been thus ascertained. The facts being thus attained, he saw 
to their application in conduct. Only such as had taken these neces- 
sary steps were competent to hold positions of authority. His method 
lay on as practical a foundation as the result ; he believed that men 
could learn what they needed for the control of their lives from the 
study of their own natures. " Know thyself," already a familiar Greek 
maxim, received new significance at his hands : all virtue depended 
on this knowledge, 

It is certainly curious that of all the Athenians it should have been 
Socrates who was picked out for death on account of dangerous 
and heretical notions, and when he was charged with not acknowledging 
the gods recognized by the state, and with introducing new demonia- 
cal beings, it is evident that no distinction was made between his 
teaching and that of the Sophists. Nor is this wholly surprising : his 
manner of thrusting himself into attention, while the Sophists rather 
let themselves be sought by their pupils, brought him into greater 
prominence, and doubtless the public was more willing to condone of- 
fenses that produced no public scandal than such as pressed themselves 
every day into every one's view. Here was a man baffling and disturb- 
ing his listeners at every street-corner, talking about what the history 
of the world has proved to be one of the most disturbing subjects pos- 
sible, that is, man's duty, and, naturally the populace would be ready 
to confound him with the more dangerous foes of general apathy. He 
put himself in evidence, as it might be said, before a public that knew 



OFFENSE OF SOCRATES— CAUSES OF HIS DEATH. 68 1 

no more than that the discussion of the settled religion was pernicious. 
If Aristophanes in his Clouds could so totally misrepresent Socrates 
as, for instance, to imply that he dabbled in physical science, how 
much more could the ignorant populace repeat the error, especially 
when we consider its preference for a single, representative victim. 
Grote's ingenious defense of the Athenian public for the condemna- 
tion of Socrates amounts to this, that he had made himself an intoler- 
able nuisance, and that it avenged by death its frequent humiliation 
by his subtle arguments, but this is scarcely so easy of belief as that 
the distinction was not clearly drawn between him and the Sophists, 
and that he suffered for the offenses of his worst antagonists. Then, 
too, it is to be remembered, great as was his opposition to them, he 
also taught the unwisdom of uninquiring compliance with conven- 
tion and law. They eluded observation ; he sought it and suffered. 
The story of his death will be found below, as well as extracts from 
his alleged defense, when Plato comes under discussion. The bare 
statement of the fact will suffice here, and may well serve to remind 
us moderns who are sometimes compared unfavorably with the Athe- 
nians, that even that wonderful people were not without their full 
share of philistinism, of bigotry, that is, and all the faults of narrow 
prejudice and harshness. Beneath the brilliant immortals was the 
populace that groped its way where others led, and only those were 
successful leaders who kept touch with the popular interests. All of 
these interests Socrates had offended : his disciples were found among 
the Thirty Tyrants ; the religious party was aggrieved by every 
inquiry into what seemed their peculiar property; the Sophists de- 
tested him, and those who dreaded the influence of the Sophists 
regarded him as the most dangerous of those perverters of innocence ; 
the conservatives looked upon him as a radical, and the radicals 
thought him a pernicious conservative. In short, he knew all 
the bitter loneliness of real independence, and paid with his life for 
daring to take nothing for granted. 

Moreover, we must remember that what in the eyes of posterity is 
the greatest glory of Socrates, the fact, namely, that he was the first 
important man who attempted to lay the foundations of the state on a 
moral basis, and that he questioned the force of authority which hitherto 
had been held sufficient ; remembering this, and his continual demand 
that all action and belief must rest on the conviction of truth or 
expediency, it is perhaps easier for us to understand the opposition to 
what must have seemed, because in fact it was, a very important sub- 
version of settled and approved principles. Discipline was danger- 
ously threatened by this correction of the old authority of the state ; 
and it is very obvious that at any time there may arise a conflict 



6%2 THE EARLY PHILOSOPHERS AND SOCRATES. 

between moral and civic duty, if the individual refuses to act until he 
has determined the justice and wisdom of his orders. The appearance 
then of the right of personal judgment was the entrance of the small 
end of the wedge that was to sunder the old Greek life with its narrow 
exclusiveness from the broader and far more extended civilizations 
that were to follow. Xenophon takes care to show us how well 
Socrates performed such civic duties as came to him ; but the schism 
that his philosophy foreboded spread after his death throughout 
society. The old conditions were outgrown, and everywhere we find 
abundant testimony of their destruction. Perhaps the best expression 
of the new feeling is to be found in this passage from Plato's Republic 
(VI. 496), where Socrates is speaking of philosophers : 

" Now he who has become a member of this little band, and has tasted 
how sweet and blessed his treasure is, and has watched the madness of the 
many, with the full assurance that there is scarcely a person who takes a single 
judicious step in his public life, and that there is no ally with whom he may 
safely march to the succour of the just ; nay, that should he attempt it, he will 
be a man that has fallen among wild beasts, — unwilling to join in their iniqui- 
ties, and unable singly to resist the fury of all, and therefore destined to 
perish before he can be of any service to his country or. his friends and do 
no good to himself or any one else ; — having, I say, weighed all this, such a 
man keeps quiet and confines himself to his own concerns, like one who 
takes shelter behind a wall on a stormy day, when the wind is driving before 
him a hurricane of dust and rain ; and when from his retreat he sees the 
defection of lawlessness spreading over the rest of mankind, he is well con- 
tent, if he can in any way leave his life here untainted in his own person by 
unrighteousness and unholy deeds, and, when the time for his release arrives, 
takes his departure amid bright hopes with cheerfulness and security." 

The echo of these eloquent words is not yet silent, and they fully 
express what finds corroboration in the complexity of Euripides and 
in the general breaking away of the old state of things. That those 
who condemned Socrates saw clearly these results of his teachings 
can not be positively affirmed ; probably they did not; for it is hard 
enough for men to see what is immediately before their eyes without 
any foreknowledge of its remote consequences, yet a dull sense of the 
discord that lay between themselves and this one man was sufficient 
to make him detested. In behalf of those who condemned Socrates, 
it is well to remember that a very little compliance on his part with 
the humor of his judges would have saved his life, but he felt that his 
work was done, and by dying as he did he gave the seal of martyrdom 
to principles that were destined to exert an enormous influence, for 
the conflict between authority and right is practically endless. And 
it is also well to bear it in mind that the life of an atheist is often 
more comfortable than that of a reformer ; he who denies everything 



THE DISCIPLES AND SUCCESSORS OE SOCRATES. 683 

is, as it were, a foreigner, but one who undertakes to improve us is as 
detestable as only our relations can be. 

The success of his enemies had its usual result in the ruin of their 
theories. The moment when they deemed themselves victorious 
history names as the date of their overthrow, and it was the small 
state theory of government that perished when Socrates died. Hence- 
forth cosmopolitanism is a recognized aim of the philosophers and of 
the thinking men in general. Athens soon ceased to be Greek and 
became a leading city in a wider empire. 

His personal followers were many. Xenophon, as we have seen, 
showed in his work the effect of his master's teachings ; ^Eschines, 
the Socratic, as he is termed to distinguish him from the orator, and 
Kebes of Thebes are included among the personal friends who 
maintained a loyal allegiance to his memory, but the direct line of 
philosophic descent consists of two main schools, the Megaric or 
Eristic, which occupied itself mainly with dialectics and the Cynic 
school of Antisthenes, and the Hedonic or Cyrenaic school of Aris- 
tippus, which investigated principally ethical matters. The founder 
of the first school was Euclid of Megara, who, like most of the disci- 
ples of Socrates, fled from Athens on the death of their teacher. He 
returned to Megara and there taught his philosophy, which combined 
the doctrines of the Electics with those of Socrates, and endeavored 
to establish the existence of a single good, called intelligence, god, 
or reason, according to the way in which it is viewed by the mind, for 
it was not to be perceived through the senses. With this philosophic 
principle he and his followers combined many dialectic subtleties 
which brought them into ill repute. The most celebrated of his 
disciples was Stilpo of Megara, who added to the statements of 
Euclid a view of things rivaling that of the Cynics, namely, that the 
wise man was not only superior to every evil, but that he should not 
even feel it. Others of whom less is known were Diodorus Cronus 
and Philo. This Euclid is of course not to be confounded with the 
more famous geometrician who lived a century later. 

Phaedo of Elis is reputed to have established a school of philosophy 
in his native city, and to have taught doctrines similar to those incul- 
cated by Euclid ; of the particulars, however, only very little is known. 

The Cynic school was established by Antisthenes of Athens, the son 
of an Athenian father and Thracian mother, who taught in a gymna- 
sium called Cynosarges, whence the school took its name. He main- 
tained that the only good thing is virtue, that enjoyment is baleful, 
and that virtue consists solely in self-control. All that it requires is 
Socratic force. Once attained, it is secure for all time, and all that lies 
vague between vice and virtue is indifferent. Thus it will be seen 



684 THE EARLY PHILOSOPHERS AND SOCRATES. 

that it is simply the ethical side of the teaching of Socrates that is 
developed by the Cynics. Diogenes of Sinope (414-323) who won for 
himself the title of the Mad Socrates, exaggerated all these theories, 
abandoned all the conveniences of civilization, and was glad to call 
himself a dog. This fantastic turn foreboded the direction the whole 




movement was to take, when affectation and grotesqueness tried to 
wear the mantle of philosophy. Yet it bore good fruit, when stripped 
of its absurdities, in the later Stoicism, for underlying all its manifes- 
tations lay a deep-felt reaction against a corrupt civilization. It cer- 
tainly seems not impossible that by inculcating upon its supporters 
entire indifference to dress, it may have had some influence in pro- 
viding a uniform for the later monastic orders. 

The Cyrenaic school, founded by Aristippus of Cyrene, distinguished 
itself from the Cynic by taking pleasure to be the aim of life. Plea- 
sure he defined as the sensation of gentle motion ; it is to be sought 
by the truly wise man, who, however, will not allow himself to be con- 
trolled by it. Physical and intellectual pleasures were equally es- 
teemed, the difference between them depending on the degree and 
duration of each. The sage will then decide for himself, and remain 
always the master rather than the slave of his pleasures. Our knowl- 



THE CYRENAIC SCHOOL. 



685 



edge, he also held, is confined to our sensations. Not unnaturally this 
school had a considerable following; besides the daughter and grand- 
son of Aristippus, we hear of Theodorus, the atheist, as he was called, 
who praised a constant cheerfulness ; of his pupils, Bio and Euhe- 
merus, who said that the worship of gods arose from the admiration 
for great men, whose fame acquired a vagueness that fitted them for 
mythological fables ; Hegesias and Anniceris. Anniceris deserves 
especial, mention for bringing into notice the importance of sympathy 
for others as a means of securing personal pleasure. 





rrltTAKD? 





MAXIMES OF THE PHILOSOPHERS AND SAGES. 



CHAPTER II.— PLATO. 

I. — The Vast Importance of Plato to Modern Thought. Mr. Benn on his Inconsis- 
tencies. Platonism Not to be Defined by one Word or Phrase. II. — The Life of 
Plato. His Aristocratic Theories. His Political Efforts for the Regeneration of 
Mankind. His Journeys, etc. His Work; the Nature of the Dialogues. III. — 
His Accounts of Socrates ; the Apology and the Crito. Extracts. IV. — The Gen- 
eral Dialogues : Their Literary Charm. Various Ones Analyzed : the Charmides, 
Lysis, Protagoras, Ion, Lesser Hippias, Meno. V. — The Symposium and the Phae- 
drus. The Gorgias. The Cratylus. The Timasus, etc. VI. — The Republic, its 
Utopianism and Aristocratic Longings. The Generally Accepted Notion of Pla- 
tonism. His Theory of Ideas. VII. — His Followers, and his Influence, and his 
New Foundation for Ethics. VIII. — Extract. 

I. 

In the end of the preceding chapter we have seen the divisions of 
those followers of Socrates who, according to their lights, carried on 
the instruction of their greater teacher, but it was not from them that 
his influence was to spread throughout the world so much as from 
Plato, the most illustrious of his followers, one of the few men who 
have left upon thought a lasting mark. The other pupils were called 
the imperfect or one-sided Socraticists ; it was Plato who developed 
the philosophy of Socrates into something that those who listened to 
the latter in the market-place could not have imagined possible. 

It is speaking within bounds to say that no single writer has exer- 
cised more influence on thinking men of ancient and modern times 
than Plato. Yet his influence was not immediate ; both he and Aris- 
totle set the mark too high for the divergent forces of Greece, and it 
was not till after the beginning of the Christian era that what was 
called Neo-Platonism arose and exerted an influence on the thought 
of the early Fathers. Justin Martyr, Clement of Alexandria, Origen, 
Eusebius, St. Augustin and others regarded Plato as inspired or as 
familiar with inspired truth, and they all welcomed him as an ally who 
could help to develop the great spiritual forces that formed part of the 
foundations of the modern world, and already some of its most impor- 
tant elements had been drawn from him. The vision of the Church 
as the sign on earth of the kingdom of heaven did not bear an acci- 
dental likeness to Plato's Republic. Throughout the Dark Ages 
Plato's fame was dimmed, but whenever men have turned their eyes 
to the light it has been Plato on whom men have depended as an 



THE INCONSISTENCIES OF PIATO.—BENN'S CRITICISM. 687 

interpreter of higher truth. It was so at the time of the Renaissance, 
when his works were studied with the utmost enthusiasm; and the 
last hundred years, aroused by the no less important excitement of 
what is vaguely called the Romantic movement, have known a revival 
of interest in his work after the brief eclipse of curiosity in the 
eighteenth century. 

Yet, as Mr. A. W. Benn has well said in his " Greek Philosophers " 
(i. 172 et seq.), "No philosopher has ever offered so extended and 
vulnerable a front to hostile criticism. None has so habitually pro- 
voked reprisals by his own incessant and searching attacks on all ex- 
isting professions, customs, and beliefs. It might even be maintained 
that none has used the weapons of controversy with more unscrupu- 
lous zeal. And it might be added that he who dwells so much on the 
importance of consistency has occasionally denounced and ridiculed 
the very principles which he elsewhere upholds as demonstrated 
truths. . . . His system seems at first sight to be made up of 
assertions, one more outrageous than another. The ascription of an 
objective, concrete, separate reality to verbal abstractions is assuredly 
the most astounding paradox ever maintained even by a metaphy- 
sician. Yet this is the central article of Plato's creed. That body is 
essentially different from extension might, one would suppose, have 
been sufficiently clear to a mathematician who had the advantage of 
coming after Leucippus and Democritus. Their identity is implicitly 
affirmed in the Timceus. That the soul can not be both created and 
eternal; that the doctrine of metempsychosis is incompatible with the 
hereditary transmission of mental qualities ; that a future immortality 
equivalent to, and proved by the same arguments as, our ante-natal 
existence, would be neither a terror to the guilty nor a consolation to 
the righteous, — are propositions implicitly denied by Plato's psychol- 
ogy. Passing from theoretical to practical philosophy, it might be 
observed that respect for human life, respect for individual property, 
respect for marriage, and respect for truthfulness, are generally num- 
bered among the strongest moral obligations, and those the obser- 
vance of which most completely distinguishes civilized from savage 
man ; while infanticide, communism, promiscuity, and the occasional 
employment of deliberate deceit, form part of Plato's scheme for the 
redemption of mankind. . . . Finally, from the standpoint of 
modern science, it might be urged that Plato used all his powerful 
influence to throw back physical speculation into the theological 
stage; that he deliberately discredited the doctrine of mechanical 
causation which, for us, is the most important achievement of early 
Greek thought ; that he expatiated on the criminal folly of those 
who held the heavenly bodies to be, what we now know them to be, 



688 PLA TO. 

masses of dead matter with no special divinity about them ; and that 
he proposed to punish this and other heresies with a severity distin- 
guishable from the fitful fanaticism of his native city only by its more 
disciplined and rigorous application." 

This formidable indictment, which, it should be said, is made by 
a most friendly hand, makes very clear the impossibility of describing 
Platonism as a rounded scheme which offers a consistent explanation 
of the universe or of social phenomena. The effort has been made, 
but with what success the long list of diverse opinions will show. It is 
naturally not so much Platonism as a system, but Plato as a man, that 
has inspired generations of liberal thinkers ; indeed, the variety of its 
tendencies has helped to inspire the supporters of the most conflicting 
theories ; it has been a sort of neutral ground from which adherents 
of the most opposite views could draw the munitions of war. Yet 
there is a likeness in the methods, however different may have been 
the designs of the various partisans. What then were the qualities 
of this wonderful man ? 

II. 

Plato, or Aristocles, to give him his real name, was born, probably in 
Athens, in 427 or 428 B.C., of an honorable family. His father was a 
descendant of Codrus, the last of the kings of Athens, and on his 
mother's side he was related to Solon. For seven or eight years 
Plato was a pupil of Socrates, and after his teacher's condemnation he 
fled from Athens and with many of his companions went to Megara, 
to the house of Euclid, for protection. What next happened is uncer- 
tain ; some assert that he took a long journey, to Cyrene, Egypt, and 
possibly to Asia Minor, although it may be that part of this time was 
spent in Athens. When about forty years old he made a visit to the 
Pythagoreans in Italy, and thence he went to Sicily, where he became 
a friend of Dio, the brother-in-law of Dionysius I., the tyrant. Here 
we are at least on a solid ground of fact ; his other journeys partake 
of the nature of romances invented to explain certain admixtures of 
foreign learning in his lessons ; thus, the early Fathers explained his 
supposed agreement with the Old Testament as a part of his acquisi- 
tions from Egypt. It is to be remembered, however, that at this time 
Athens was the clearing-house for the whole intellectual world, that 
philosophers of all sorts met there for exchange and discussion of 
their ideas, and that his knowledge of other views does not require the 
hypothesis of his travels by its explanation. In Sicily he fared but 
ill ; his frank speech soon aroused the anger of Dionysius, who, in his 
wrath, had him sold as a prisoner of war in ^Egina then fighting with 



POLITICAL THEORIES OF PLATO. 



Athens. The story runs that he was rescued from this miserable 
condition by Anniceris, the philosopher, who practiced here the sym- 
pathy that he taught in his lessons. 

We have already seen in the words of the philosophers evidence 
of their tendency to sepa- 
rate themselves from the 
narrow limits of civil life, 
and in Plato's endeavors 
to put his political theo- 
ries in practice in the 
realm of the Sicilian 
tyrants, we may find an- 
other example of this en- 
largement of the func- 
tions of their favorite 
study. It was in large 
states, with monarchical 
tendencies, that they 
hoped to exercise an in- 
fluence denied them by 
the Athenian democracy, 
and since philosophers 
could not become kings 
they thought to accom- 
plish their efforts by 
making kings philoso- 
phers. As Plato said in 
the Republic (V. 473) : 

" Unless it happens either 
that philosophers acquire 
the kingly power in states, 
or that those who are now 

called kings and poten- plato. 

tates be imbued with a 

sufficient measure of genuine philosophy, that is to say, unless political 
power and philosophy be united in the same person, most of those 
minds which at present pursue one to the exclusion of the other being 
peremptorily debarred from either, there will be no deliverance, my dear 
Glaucus, for cities, nor yet, I believe, for the human race ; neither can the 
commonwealth, which we have now sketched in theory, ever till then grow 
into a possibility and see the light of day. But a consciousness how en- 
tirely this would contradict the common opinion made me all along so 
reluctant to give expression to it : for it is difficult to see that there is no 
other way by which happiness can be attained by the state or by the 
individual." 




690 PLATO. 

The only countries where the proper conditions seemed to exist 
were Syracuse and Macedonia, and it was to these that the 
philosophers turned their attention. Socrates himself had been in- 
vited to the Macedonian court by Archelaus, but he was too good an 
Athenian to think of going away, although, as has been said, Euripi- 
des and Agathon were more compliant. Plato, too, had received an 
invitation thither, but it was to Sicily that he turned his steps ; yet in 
spite of these refusals the Macedonian rulers appear to have sought 
and obtained the aid of the philosophers, partly, doubtless, from a 
desire to introduce civilization into their ruder country, and partly, 
too, as was the case in the eighteenth century with Catherine of 
Russia, from a politic desire to make use of their ready and powerful 
influence. Thus we shall see later how Aristotle came into the em- 
ployment of the Macedonians. It is obvious that these close relations 
between the philosophers and the most powerful monarchs of the time 
could not have been without effect on the political development of 
Athens, and that they also express a new perception of the widening 
civilization that began to show itself. The frequent effort of the 
philosophers of very different calibre to describe an ideal state proves 
that they thought that the old order of things was at an end, and this 
was not disproved by the fact that in their lives they were not political 
conspirators or agitators. It is not merely what men say or do that 
has influence on posterity, but their general positions with regard to 
the world ; and even if the philosophers can not be detected intriguing 
with the Macedonian party, their contemplation of an aristocratic 
superiority to low civic cares and their serene hope of an altered poli- 
tical condition in which wisdom should alone be honored, all bore 
fruit in the general indifference to patriotic teaching in Athens and in 
the establishment afterwards of Alexandria, which, as we shall see, at 
once became the metropolis of all the learning of the world, the great 
center of every branch of education. It is obvious that it could not 
have acquired this prominence without previous preparation, and it 
may not be unfair to suppose that this preparation was going on, pos- 
sibly unconsciously, in the minds of the philosophers, who were unde- 
niably the intellectual leaders of their time. 

A similar argument may be applied to the transformation of relig- 
ious belief. No one will deny that here the influence of the phil- 
osophers was very great. Not one of them shared the popular views 
concerning the gods ; all, without exception, Academicians, Peripa- 
tetics, Stoics, and Epicureans, agreed that the stories that were told 
about and were accepted by the ignorant rabble were but myths, to 
which some ascribed a higher spiritual significance than did others. 
And for the educated classes the teachings of philosophy ever more 



THE SCHOOL OF ATHENS. 691 

and more took the place of the old religion. Yet we do not detect 
the philosophers blaspheming, burning the temples, or desecrating the 
images of the gods. Their influence worked more subtly, and with 
more effect, as all serious thought must work even if it is so carefully 
guarded that its expression shall nowhere appear iconoclastic. Soc- 
rates, we are accustomed to say, was unjustly put to death for destroy- 
ing the belief in the gods, and it is true that he strongly urged that 
they be worshiped, but it is quite as true that the philosophy which 
was inspired by him overthrew the old religion among educated men. 
This result was latent in the very condition of intellectual curiosity 
which animated him ; and as to the political views of the philosophers, 
the later cosmopolitanism was already implied in their theories about 
an improved state. Their acceptance of the small Greek city as their 
ideal is no more answer to this, than their avowed reverence before 
the deities ; the change that they desired involved the larger 
conditions. 

In 387 or 386 B.C., Plato, once more in Athens, opened his famous 
school in the Academy. The Academy was situated just outside Athens, 
less than a mile from the city gate, near the hill of Colonus celebrated 
by Sophocles ; the place got its name from the old hero Academus, of 
whom it was said that when Castor and Polydeuces invaded Attica to 
set free their sister Helen, he told them the place where she was kept 
in concealment. This assertion seems to us to have much more the 
nature of an anecdote than that of a fact, but it was sufficiently 
authoritative at the time of the Peloponnesian war to save the region 
from ravage. In time a gymnasium for the instruction of youth was 
built here, and called the Academy. These gymnasia contained an 
enclosure where grew trees as in a college yard, and it was in these 
groves that Plato, who lived in the neighborhood, taught philosophy to 
a number of enthusiastic pupils for nearly twenty years. In 367 B.C. he 
made another journey to Syracuse, in Sicily, to visit the court of the 
second Dionysius, who had succeeded to power, and still retained all 
a crown-prince's enthusiasm for the studies of his youth. Dion, the 
young tyrant's uncle, encouraged the new ruler, and for a time appa- 
rently there was a distinct promise that philosophy should be brought 
to a practical application in affairs of state. Plato had a brief taste 
of the sweets of popularity in this court; but soon the fashion turned, 
Dion was banished, all hopes of reformation disappeared, and Plato 
returned to Athens with his theories still untested and Syracuse not 
made over anew. A few years later, undismayed by his previous fail- 
ures, he was again in Syracuse trying to effect a reconciliation be- 
tween Dion and Dionysius, but without success, and the rest of his life, 
some twenty years, for he died in 348 or 347 B.C., was spent in impart- 



692 PLATO. 

ing philosophic instruction and in composing his dialogues. Yet a 
change was making itself felt : Aristotle was acquiring prominence as 
a rival who was at the same time an opponent. Before he died he 
appointed his nephew, Speusippus, the head of the Academy, judging 
him the most worthy to carry on his teaching. 

For a long time Plato was regarded as a model of personal beauty, 
although this reputation rests on a slenderer basis than it did before 
one of the busts supposed to portray him was discovered to be a rep- 
resentation of young Dionysius. In his youth he was a writer of verses, 
but when he became interested in philosophy he burned the tetralogy 
that he had written, devoting himself to austerer studies. Yet aus- 
terity is in no way a characteristic of Plato, and though it is by no 
means impossible that his poetry may have belonged to the same cate- 
gory as Socrates' statues, his prose has a charm that has been a large 
factor in the influence of this writer, who combines wit, eloquence, and 
grace with a poetical quality, after a fashion that one is safe in saying 
has never been equaled. Byron wrote to a friend, who had been 
praising his Don Juan, that there was no poem in the world of which 
one-half was good, that such approbation could be given only to de- 
tached passages of the work of the most famous poets. The same 
thing is true of most prose, and Plato's often flags. It contains sandy 
tracts in which jewels are half-hidden, and some where there are no 
jewels ; but his best is most marvelous in its grace and richness. 

The form that he chose for imparting his instruction to readers was 
that of the dialogue, which thus gave the most vivid representation of 
the conversations by which doubtless he himself, as certainly his mas- 
ter Socrates, taught philosophy. Moreover, the masterly skill with 
which he handles this form of composition makes it clear that he took 
possession of one already developed by others, and gave it the final 
touch of perfection, and the facts confirm this impression. Zeno, the 
Eleatic, had already made use of question and answer to convey 
instruction, and several of the followers of Socrates, besides Xeno- 
phon, had composed dialogues that should represent the method of 
their master, but none rivaled Plato in grandeur of conception and in 
literary excellence. Like his immediate predecessors, he gave Soc- 
rates the leading part in his dialogues, and in his mouth he placed all 
the truths of philosophy; indeed, he drew him as philosophy incarnate. 

Unfortunately there grew up around the genuine dialogues a num- 
ber of imitations which are not to be readily distinguished from what 
really belongs to Plato, just as the works of the great masters of paint- 
ing are not always to be separated from those of their disciples. 
Thirteen letters alleged to have been written by him from Sicily 
have been discarded, and many dialogues were rejected even by 



THE DIALOGUES.— THEIR EFFECT UPON MODERN THOUGHT. 693 

antiquity ; more have shared the same fate in modern times, and the 
determination of what is genuine is yet far from being settled. An- 
other subject of discussion, and one, apparently, equally interminable, 
is the order of their composition. That any generally satisfactory 
solution of either of these problems is possible, may well be doubted 
in view of Plato's disposition to follow an argument wherever it would 
lead him, without regarding consistency or that stifler of independ- 
ence, a formal system of arrangement. This freedom from the cus- 
tomary shackles, it may be presumed, has been of the utmost service 
in adapting philosophy to different tastes, for few have been insensible 
to the varied fascinations of his style. The fact remains undeniable 
that these dialogues have been among the most powerful instiga- 
tors of thought that the world has ever known. Scientific thought 
has not yet in the world's history proved nearly so fascinating as that 
combination of feeling, emotion, and dialectic with which these won- 
derful writings abound. 

This quality of Plato's teaching, which has so noticeably adapted it 
for admiration in periods of intellectual excitement, when men were 
possessed by a hopefulness and enthusiasm for which perhaps they 
could give no satisfactory explanation, probably owed its origin in 
some measure to his discontent with the current sensationalism then 
taught by the Sophists, just as in following his own fancy, without 
formulating a system, he reacted from their rigid formalism. How- 
ever this may be, his choice was a happy one, for from his utterances 
men have drawn the foundations of many schemes of the universe, 
exactly as from texts that have expressed discontent with things 
present or confidence in unknown powers, there have arisen the most 
complicated systems of theology. The fundamental characteristic 
of Plato is idealism, the enforcement, namely, of the lesson that 
above and beyond what we may perceive through our senses, there 
exist ideals which alone are true things ; all that exists is but a vague 
and shadowy representation of these higher truths, as they were called 
with but little conception of the confusion that would be wrought by 
this introduction of social distinctions among thoughts. Yet what 
becomes very clear in the study of Plato is the difference between 
those dialogues in which the negative spirit prevails and the compo- 
sure of those who hold conventional ideas is sadly ruffled, and the 
others in which Plato, abandoning negation, proceeds to explicit 
affirmation of his own views. He first cleared the field of pretensions 
to knowledge, and then declared what it was that he thought to be the 
truth. The ingenuity with which Socrates is represented as under- 
mining ignorance and arrogance is most noteworthy ; at times the 
reader almost wonders that the Athenians, when they at last had him 



694 PLA TO. 

in their power, did not burn him at the stake or have him torn limb 
from limb by wild horses. 

III. 

Besides the philosophical writings of Plato, there are included among 
the dialogues the Apology and the Crito, which serve to show forth the 
Socrates whom Plato adored. The Apology assumes to be the speech 
delivered by that philosopher to his accusers, yet there are no means 
of deciding the faithfulness of the report, although its quality agrees 
with what Xenophon tells us of the real speech, that if Socrates had 
tried at all to be conciliatory, he would have been acquitted. Whether 
a faithful transcript or an ingenious invention, it is a most wonderful 
speech, and it is hard to doubt that some, if not the greater part, of 
the words of Socrates must have been recorded here. The defense 
begins with a modest denial of the possession of eloquence against 
which his hearers had been warned, and then follows an answer to the 
charges of corrupting youth and of atheism. Part of this division of 
the defence is taken up with a cross-examination of his accusers, who 
fall speedily before his easy attack. Socrates shows how naturally he 
has won a bad name in Athens, and explains the whole aim of his 
long-continued system of discovering the pretended wisdom of his 
fellow-citizens. He will not entreat to have his life spared ; for that 
he thinks dishonorable. When he is convicted and it is proposed that 
he be condemned to death, his irony appears more fully, he declines to 
suggest exile as a counter-proposal, and offers a slight fine in lieu of 
death, a single mina, which his friends persuade him to advance to 
thirty minae. When this proposal is declined and his death is voted, 
he points out that this punishment has no terrors for him, that he is 
an old man who can look for only a few years more at the best, and 
that death will either secure him a dreamless sleep or be the means of 
conveying him to the companionship of the wise and good. He also 
warns his judges that they will not confer any benefit upon the world 
by killing him, for his followers will not refrain from accusing them of 
injustice. 

There are many reasons why I am not grieved, O men of Athens, at the 
vote of condemnation. I expected it, and am only surprised that the votes 
are so nearly equal; for I had thought that the majority against me would have 
been far larger ; but now, had three votes gone over to the other side, I should 
have been acquitted. And I may say, I think, that I have escaped Meletus. 
Nay, I may say more ; for without the assistance of Anytus and Lycon, 
he would not have had a fifth part of the votes, as the law requires, in which 
case he would have incurred a fine of a thousand drachmae, as is evident. 

And so he proposes death as the penalty. And what shall I propose on 



SOCRATES' SPEECH TO HIS JUDGES. 695 

my part, O men of Athens ? Clearly that which is my due. And what is 
that which I ought to pay or to receive ? What shall be done to the man 
who has never had the wit to be idle during his whole life ; but has been 
careless of what the many care about — wealth, and family interests, and 
military offices, and speaking in the assembly, and magistracies, and plots, 
and parties. Reflecting that I was really too honest a man to follow in this 
way and live, I did not go where I could do no good to you or to myself ; 
but where I could do the greatest good privately to every one of you, thither 
I went, and sought to persuade every man among you, that he must look to 
himself, and seek virtue and wisdom before he looks to his private interests, 
and look to the state before he looks to the interests of the state ; and that 
this should be the order which he observes in all his actions. What shall be 
done to such an one ? Doubtless some good thing, O men of Athens, if he 
has his reward ; and the good should be of a kind suitable to him. What 
would be a reward suitable to a poor man who is your benefactor, who desires 
leisure that he may instruct you ? There can be no more fitting reward than 
maintenance in the Prytaneum, O men of Athens, a reward which he deserves 
far more than the citizen who has won the prize at Olympia in the horse or 
chariot race, whether the chariots were drawn by two horses or by many. 
For I am in want, and he has enough ; and he only gives you the appear- 
ance of happiness, and I give you the reality. And if I am to estimate the 
penalty fairly, I should say that maintenance in the Prytaneum is the just 
return. 

Perhaps you think that I am braving you in what I am saying now, as in 
what I said before about the tears and prayers. But this is not the case. 
I speak rather because I am convinced that I never intentionally wronged 
any one, although I cannot convince you of that — for we have had a short 
conversation only ; but if there were a law at Athens, such as there is in 
other cities, that a capital cause should not be decided in one day, then I 
believe that I should have convinced you ; but now the time is too short. 
I cannot in a moment refute great slanders ; and, as I am convinced that I 
never wronged another, I will assuredly not wrong myself. I will not say 
of myself that I deserve any evil, or propose any penalty. Why should I ? 
Because I am afraid of the penalty of death which Meletus proposes ? When 
I do not know whether death is a good or an evil, why should I propose a 
penalty which would certainly be an evil ? Shall I say imprisonment ? And 
why should I live in prison, and be the slave of the magistrates of the year — 
of the Eleven ? Or shall the penalty be a fine, and imprisonment until the 
fine is paid? There is the same objection. I should have to lie in prison, 
for money I have none, and cannot pay. And if I say exile (and this may 
possibly be the penalty which you will affix), I must indeed be blinded by 
the love of life, if I am so irrational as to expect that when you, who are my 
own citizens, cannot endure my discourses and words, and have found them 
so grievous and odious that you would fain have done with them, others are 
likely to endure me. No indeed, men of Athens, that is not very likely. 
And what a life should I lead, at my age, wandering from city to city, living 
in ever-changing exile, and always being driven out ! For I am quite sure 
that into whatever place I go, as here so also there, the young men will come 
and listen to me ; and if I drive them away, their elders will drive me out at 
their desire ; and if I let them come, their fathers and friends will drive me 
out for their sakes. 

Some one will say : Yes, Socrates, but cannot you hold your tongue, and 
then you may go into a foreign city, and no one will interfere with you ? 



696 PLATO. 

Now I have great difficulty in making you understand my answer to this. 
For if I tell you that to do as you say would be a disobedience to the God, 
and therefore that I cannot hold my tongue, you will not believe that I am 
serious ; and if I say again that the greatest good of man is daily to con- 
verse about virtue, and all that concerning which you hear me examining 
myself and others, and that the life which is unexamined is not worth living, 
you are still less likely to believe me. And yet what I say is indeed true, 
although a thing of which it is hard for me to persuade you. Moreover, I 
have not been accustomed to think that I deserve any punishment. Had I 
money I might have estimated the offence at what I was able to pay, and 
have been none the worse. But you see that I have none, and I can only 
ask you to proportion the fine to my means. However, I think that I could 
afford a mina, and therefore I propose that penalty : Plato, Crito, Critobulus, 
and Apollodorus, my friends here, bid me say thirty minae, and they will be 
the sureties. Well, then, say thirty minse, let that be the penalty ; and for 
that sum they will be ample security to you. 

Not much time will be gained, O Athenians, in return for the evil name 
which you will get from the detractors of the city, who will say that you 
killed Socrates, a wise man ; for they will call me wise, even although I am 
not wise, when they want to reproach you. If you had waited a little while, 
your desire would have been fulfilled in the course of nature. For I am far 
advanced in years, as you may perceive, and not far from death. I am 
speaking now only to those of you who have condemned me to death. And 
I have another thing to say to them : You think that I was convicted because 
I had no words of the sort which would have procured my acquittal — I mean, 
if I had thought fit to leave nothing undone or unsaid. Not so ; the 
deficiency which led to my conviction was not of words — certainly not. But 
I had not the boldness or impudence or inclination to address you, as you 
would have liked me to address you, weeping and wailing and lamenting, 
and saying and doing many things which you have been accustomed to hear 
from others, and which, as I maintain, are unworthy of me. I thought at 
the time that I ought not to do anything common or mean when in danger : 
nor do I now repent of the manner of my defence, arid I would rather die 
having spoken after my manner, than speak in your manner and live. For 
neither in war nor yet at law ought I or any man to use every way of escaping 
death. Often in battle there can be no doubt that if a man will throw away 
his arms, and fall on his knees before his pursuers, he may escape death ; 
and in other dangers there are other ways of escaping death, if a man is 
willing to say and do anything. The difficulty, my friends, is not in avoiding 
death, but in avoiding unrighteousness ; for that runs faster than death. I 
am old and move slowly, and the slower runner has overtaken me, and my 
accusers are keen and quick, and the faster runner, who is unrighteousness, 
has overtaken them. And now I depart hence condemned by you to suffer 
the penalty of death, and they too go their ways condemned by the truth to 
suffer the penalty of villainy and wrong ; and I must abide by my award — 
let them abide by theirs. I suppose that these things may be regarded as 
fated, — and I think that they are well. And now, O men who have con- 
demned me, I would fain prophesy to you ; for I am about to die, and that 
is the hour in which men are gifted with prophetic power. And I prophesy 
to you who are my murderers, that immediately after my death punishment 
far heavier than you have inflicted on me will surely await you. Me you 
have killed because you wanted to escape the accuser, and not to give an 



SOCRATES' SPEECH TO HIS JUDGES. 697 

account of your lives. But that will not be as you suppose : far otherwise. 
For I say that there will be more accusers of you than there are now ; 
accusers whom hitherto I have restrained : and as they are younger they 
will be more inconsiderate with you, and you will be more offended at them. 
If you think that by killing men you can prevent some one from censuring 
your evil lives, you are mistaken ; that is not a way of escape which is either 
possible or honourable ; the easiest and the noblest way is not to be disabling 
others, but to be improving yourselves. This is the prophecy which I utter 
before. my departure to the judges who have condemned me. 

Friends, who would have acquitted me, I would like also to talk with you 
about this thing which has happened, while the magistrates are busy, and 
before I go to the place at which I must die. Stay then awhile, for we may 
as well talk with one another while there is time. You are my friends, and 
I should like to show you the meaning of this event which has happened to 
me. O my judges — for you I may truly call judges — I should like to tell 
you of a wonderful circumstance. Hitherto the familiar oracle within me 
has constantly been in the habit of opposing me even about trifles, if I was 
going to make a slip or error in any matter ; and now as you see there has 
come upon me that which may be thought, and is generally believed to be, 
the last and worst evil. But the oracle made no sign of opposition, either as 
I was leaving my house and going out in the morning, or when I was going 
up into this court, or while I was speaking, at anything which I was going to 
say ; and yet I have often been stopped in the middle of a speech, but now 
in nothing I either said or did touching this matter has the oracle opposed 
me. What do I take to be the explanation of this ? I will tell you. I 
regard this as a great proof that what has happened to me is a good, and 
that those of us who think that death is an evil are in error. For the cus- 
tomary sign would surely have opposed me had I been going to evil and not 
to good. Let us reflect in another way, and we shall see that there is great 
reason to hope that death is a good ; for one of two things — either death is 
a state of nothingness and utter unconsciousness, or, as men say, there is a 
change and migration of the soul from this world to another. Now if you 
suppose that there is no consciousness, but a sleep like the sleep of him who 
is undisturbed even by the sight of dreams, death will be an unspeakable 
gain. For if a person were to select the night in which his sleep was undis- 
turbed even by dreams, and were to compare with this the other days and 
nights of his life, and then were to tell us how many days and nights he had 
passed in the course of his life better and more pleasantly than this one, I 
think that any man, I will not say a private man, but even the great king will 
not find many such days or nights, when compared with the others. Now if 
death is like this, I say that to die is gain ; for eternity is then only a single 
night. But if death is the journey to another place, and there, as men say, 
all the dead are, what good, O my friends and judges, can be greater than 
this ? If indeed when the pilgrim arrives in the world below, he is delivered 
from the professors of justice in this world, and find the true judges who 
are said to give judgment there, Minos and Rhadamanthus and yEacus and 
Triptolemus, and other sons of God who were righteous in their own life, 
that pilgrimage will be worth making. What would not a man give if he 
might converse with Orpheus and Musaeus and Hesiod and Homer ? Nay, 
if this be true, let me die again and again. I myself, too, shall have a won- 
derful interest in there meeting and conversing with Palamedes, and Ajax 
the son of Telamon, and other heroes of old, who have suffered death 
through an unjust judgment ; and there will be no small pleasure, as I think, 



6 9 8 PL A TO. 

in comparing my own sufferings with theirs. Above all, I shall then be able 
to continue my search into true and false knowledge ; as in this world, so 
also in that ; and I shall find out who is wise, and who pretends to be wise, 
and is not. What would not a man give, O judges, to be able to examine 
the leader of the great Trojan expedition; or Odysseus or Sisyphus, or 
numberless others, men and women too ! What infinite delight would there 
be in conversing with them and asking them questions ! In another world 
they do not put a man to death for asking questions ; assuredly not. For 
besides being happier in that world than in this, they will be immortal, if 
what is said is true. 

Wherefore, O judges, be of good cheer about death, and know of a cer- 
tainty, that no evil can happen to a good man, either in life or after death. 
He and his are not neglected by the gods ; nor has my own approaching 
end happened by mere chance. But I see clearly that to die and be released 
was better for me ; and therefore the oracle gave no sign. For which 
reason, also, I am not angry with my condemners, or with my accusers ; they 
have done me no harm, although they did not mean to do me any good ; 
and for this I may gently blame them. 

Still I have a favour to ask of them. When my sons are grown up, I 
would ask you, O my friends, to punish them ; and I would have you trouble 
them, as I have troubled you, if they seem to care about riches, or anything, 
more than about virtue ; or if they pretend to be something when they are 
really nothing, — then reprove them, as I have reproved you, for not caring 
about that for which they ought to care, and thinking that they are some- 
thing when they are really nothing. And if you do this, I and my sons will 
have received justice at your hands. 

The hour of departure has arrived, and we go our ways — I to die, and 
you to live. Which is better God only knows. 

FROM THE PH^DO. 

Wherefore, Simmias, seeing all these things, what ought not we to do that 
we may obtain virtue and wisdom in this life ? Fair is the prize, and the 
hope great ! A man of sense ought not to say, nor will I be too confident, 
that the description which I have given of the soul and her mansions is 
exactly true. But I do say that, inasmuch as the soul is shown to be immortal, 
he may venture to think, not improperly or unworthily, that something of the 
kind is true. The venture is a glorious one, and he ought to comfort himself 
with words like these, which is the reason why I lengthen out the tale. 
Wherefore, I say, let a man be of good cheer about his soul, who has cast 
away the pleasures and ornaments of the body as alien to him, and hurtful 
rather in their effects, and has followed after the pleasures of knowledge in 
this life ; who has arrayed the soul in her own proper jewels, which are 
temperance, and justice, and courage, and nobility, and truth — thus adorned 
she is ready to go on her journey to the world below, when her hour comes. 
You, Simmias and Cebes, and all other men, will depart at some time or 
other. Me already, as the tragic poet would say, the voice of fate calls. 
Soon I must drink the poison ; and I think that I had better repair to the 
bath first, in order that the women may not have the trouble of washing my 
body after I am dead. 

When he had done speaking, Crito said : And have you any commands 
for us, Socrates — anything to say about your children, or any other matter 
in which we can serve you ? Nothing particular, he said : only, as I have 



THE DEATH OF SOCRATES. 699 

always told you, I would have you look to yourselves ; that is a service 
which you may always be doing to me and mine as well as to yourselves. 
And you need not make professions ; for if you take no thought for your- 
selves, and walk not according to the precepts which I have given you, not 
now for the first time, the warmth of your professions will be of no avail. 
We will do our best, said Crito. But in what way would you have us 
bury you ? 

In any way that you like ; only you must get hold of me, and take care 
that I do not walk away from you. Then he turned to us, and added with a 
smile :— I cannot make Crito believe that I am the same Socrates who have 
been talking and conducting the argument ; he fancies that I am the other 
Socrates whom he will soon see, a dead body — and he asks, How shall he 
bury me? And though I have spoken many words in the endeavour to show 
that when I have drunk the poison I shall leave you and go to the joys of 
the blessed, — these words of mine, with which I comforted you and myself, 
have had, as I perceive, no effect upon Crito. And therefore I want you to 
be surety for me now, as he was surety for me at the trial : but let the prom- 
ise be of another sort ; for he was my surety to the judges that I would 
remain, and you must be my surety to him that I shall not remain, but go 
away and depart ; and then he will suffer less at my death, and not be 
grieved when he sees my body being burned or buried. I would not have 
him sorrow at my hard lot, or say at the burial, Thus we lay out Socrates, 
or, Thus we follow him to the grave or bury him ; for false words are not 
only evil in themselves, but they infect the soul with evil. Be of good cheer 
then, my dear Crito, and say that you are burying, my body only, and do with 
that as is usual, and as you think best. When he had spoken these words, 
he arose and told us to wait while he went into the bath-chamber with Crito; 
and we waited, talking and thinking of the subject of discourse, and also of 
the greatness of our sorrow ; he was like a father of whom we were being 
bereaved, and we were about to pass the rest of our lives as orphans. When 
he had taken the bath his children were brought to him — (he had two 
young sons and an elder one) ; and the women of his family also came, and 
he talked to them and gave them a few directions in the presence of Crito ; 
and he then dismissed them and returned to us. 

Now the hour of sunset was near, for a good deal of time had passed 
while he was within. When he came out, he sat down with us again after 
his bath, but not much was said. Soon the jailer, who was the servant of 
the eleven, entered and stood by him, saying : — To you, Socrates, whom I 
know to be the noblest and gentlest and best of all who ever came to this 
place, I will not impute the angry feelings of other men, who rage and swear 
at me, when, in obedience to the authorities I bid them drink the poison — 
indeed, I am sure you will not be angry with me ; for others, as you are 
aware, and not I, are the guilty cause. And so fare you well, and try to 
bear lightly what must needs be ; you know my errand. Then bursting 
into tears he turned away and went out. 

Socrates looked at him and said : I return your good wishes, and will do 
as you bid. Then turning to us, he said, How charming the man is : since 
I have been in prison he has always been coming to see me, and at times he 
would talk to me, and was as good as could be, and now see how gener- 
ously he sorrows for me. But we must do as he says, Crito : let the cup be 
brought, if the poison is prepared : if not, let the attendant prepare some. 

Yet, said Crito, the sun is still upon the hill-tops, and I know that many a 
one has taken the draught late, and after the announcement has been made 



7°° PLATO. 

to him, he has eaten and drunk, and enjoyed the society of his beloved ; do 
not hasten then, there is still time. 

Socrates said : Yes, Crito, and they of whom you speak are right in doing 
thus, for they think that they will gain by the delay; but I am right in not doing 
thus, for I do not think that I should gain anything by drinking the poison 
a little later ; I should be sparing and saving a life which is already gone, 
and could only despise myself for this. Please then to do as I say, and not 
to refuse me. 

Crito made a sign to the servant, who was standing by ; and he went out, 
and having been absent for some time, returned with the jailer carrying the 
cup of poison. Socrates said : You, my good friend, who are experienced 
in these matters, shall give me directions how I am to proceed. The man 
answered : You have only to walk about until your legs are heavy, and then 
to lie down, and the poison will act. At the same time he handed the cup 
to Socrates, who in the easiest and gentlest manner, without the least fear or 
change of colour or feature, looking at the man with all his eyes, Echecrates, 
as his manner was, took the cup and said : What do you say about making 
a libation out of this cup to any god ? May I, or not ? The man answered: 
We only prepare, Socrates, just so much as we deem enough. I understand, 
he said : but I may and must ask the gods to prosper my journey from this 
to that other world — even so — and so be it according to my prayer. Then 
holding the cup to his lips, quite readily and cheerfully he drank off the 
poison. And hitherto most of us had been able to control our sorrow, but 
now when we saw him drinking, and saw too that he had finished the draught, 
we could no longer forbear, and in spite of myself my own tears were flowing 
fast, so that I covered my face and wept over myself, for certainly I was not 
weeping over him, but at the thought of my own calamity in having lost such 
a friend. Nor was I the first, for Crito, when he found himself unable to 
restrain his tears, had got up and moved away, and I followed ; and at that 
moment, Apollodorus, who had been weeping ali the time, broke out in a 
loud and passionate cry which made cowards of us all. Socrates alone 
retained his calmness : What is this strange outcry ? he said. I sent away 
the women mainly in order that they might not offend in this way, for I have 
heard that a man should die in peace. Be quiet then, and have patience. 
When we heard that, we were ashamed, and refrained our tears ; and he 
walked about until, as he said, his legs began to fail, and then he lay on his 
back according to the directions, and the men who gave him the poison now 
and then looked at his feet and legs ; and after a while he pressed his foot 
hard, and asked him if he could feel ; and he said, No ; and then his leg, 
and so upwards and upwards, and showed us that he was cold and stiff. And 
he felt them himself, and said : When the poison reaches the heart, that will 
be the end. He was beginning to grow cold about the groin, when he un- 
covered his face, for he had covered himself up, and said (they were his last 
words) — he said : Crito, I owe a cock to Asclepius ; will you remember to 
pay the debt ? The debt shall be paid, said Crito ; is there anything else ? 
There was no answer to the question ; but in a minute or two a movement 
was heard, and the attendants uncovered him ; his eyes were set, and Crito 
closed his eyes and mouth. 

Such was the end, Echecrates, of our friend, whom I may truly call the 
wisest, the justest, and best of all the men whom I have ever known. 

In the Crito, we have a representation of Socrates declining the 
offer of his friends to help him escape from prison, on the ground 



702 PLA TO. 

that he would be doing wrong in breaking the laws, and that wher- 
ever he might decide to live, he would be justly regarded as a male 
factor who could not properly set up for a teacher of virtue. 

The Menexenosis another unphilosophical dialogue, wherein Socra- 
tes repeats a eulogy of Athens which he says that he heard uttered 
by Aspasia, the mistress of Pericles. 

IV. 

In the several dialogues as we find them in Jowett's admirable 
translation, we shall not detect, as the reader can not be too often 
reminded, anything like a definite system, but rather wit, ingenuity, 
eloquence, and poetry, playing about a number of subjects, sometimes 
amazing us with a more than childlike simplicity, again taking our 
breath away with their sweep and boldness. The Charrhides is a dis- 
cussion of the nature of temperance, or, more definitely, moderation, 
that takes place between Socrates, who is represented as recounting 
the conversation, Charmides, Chaerephon, and Critias. There is no 
definition of this virtue growing out of the talk; one attempt is made 
after another by the secondary interlocutors, but Socrates finds a flaw 
in every one that is suggested, and while it is agreed that temperance 
is an admirable quality, yet the essential core that marks its difference 
from other virtues is not found. The Laches and the Euthyphron 
take up in a similar way courage and holiness respectively, showing 
the difficulty of getting any general definition of the abstract quality. 
In the Lysis there is an equal failure to define friendship. While 
these three dialogues are animated by a single spirit, the effort, that 
is to say, to clear the ground by disposing of the authority of the cur- 
rent confidence in the power of names to supersede intelligent com- 
prehension, they are yet somewhat less vivid than certain other 
dialogues in which equally important work is done with more com- 
pleteness. They are full of attractive qualities ; the Charmides 
especially is rich in wit and compliment, but the Protagoras far sur- 
passes them all in literary merit. Here, as often elsewhere, Socrates 
reports the conversation, which is mainly a discussion between Prota- 
goras and himself on the question whether or not virtue can be 
taught. While this is the main subject of discussion, the controversy 
also plays about many subsidiary matters with the most attractive 
grace and eloquence. The whole dialogue is a wonderful piece of 
dramatic art, and the picture of the elderly Protagoras, generous and 
amiable, is most fascinating. He is no man of straw to be overborne 
by the arguments of Socrates, but a very genuine person, although 
he can make no showing against his formidable antagonist when the 
fatal hour of cross-examination comes. Yet at other moments he is 



VIEWS REGARDING POETICAL COMPOSITION. 703 

powerful and attractive, while Socrates with the incessant iteration 
of his questions is at times paradoxical and wearisome, although this 
is far from being a final criticism of his part in the dialogue, or of the 
upshot, so far as there is an upshot, of the talk, that virtue is 
knowledge. 

Some of the implications of the Protagoras are further developed 
in other minor dialogues. Thus, the Ion treats of the nature of poet- 
ical composition and recitation. It takes its name from the Rhapsode 
who falls into the clutches of Socrates and is readily led to believe 
that his success in his art is due to inspiration. Puffed up with this 
belief, he avers under the ironical questioning of Socrates that his 
knowledge of Homer gave him the mastery of every art and thus fitted 
him for an-appointment as general. But apart from this satire of the 
extreme adulation that was often expressed by his contemporaries 
for the works of Homer, Plato also makes it clear that he too is not 
unaffected by a generous enthusiasm when he states his notion that a 
poet composes under the influence of inspiration. The poet, he says, 
"is a light, and winged, and holy thing." 

" These beautiful poems are not human, or the work of man, but divine 
and the work of God ; the poets are only the interpreters of the Gods by 
whom they are severally possessed. Was not this the lesson which the God 
intended to teach, when by the mouth of the worst of poets he sang the best 
of songs ? " 

Plato's name thus lent weight to one of the most long-lived super- 
stitions that civilization has ever known, and one that has perhaps 
done more than any other to separate literature from life by ascribing 
to it a divine origin. Curiously enough, this exaggeration of the 
poet's rank goes on all fours with the savage's ascription of divinity 
to everything that he can not understand. Later, however, we shall 
see that, in spite of this exaltation of poets, Plato deals out to them 
harder measure in his ideal state. Again, in the Lesser Hippias, 
Socrates criticises the Homeric poems while discussing the general 
question, whether those who err voluntarily or those who err invol- 
untarily are the better, a matter which he fails to solve. 

Most of these dialogues portray the ready downfall of the Sophists 
before the swift sword-play of Socrates, and in the Euthydemus he 
carries on the same warfare, which is marked by good-humored ban- 
ter and indeed at times by a childish logic-chopping on the part of 
his antagonists that make short work of those whom Plato is always 
ready to portray as dangerous persons. Socrates lets it be seen how 
pernicious are their methods, and in what way the young could be 
more wisely taught. In the Meno, the question, Can virtue be taught ? 



7°4 PLATO. 



is brought up again for discussion, with but a vague answer, that 
virtue comes to the virtuous by the grace of God. 



The Symposium and the Phsedrus contain conversations on the 
nature of love, that have formed the sacred books of mystics for 
many generations. Nowhere does Plato pour out a fuller measure of 
fancy, poetry, and sympathetic enthusiasm than here. The generous 
abundance of his ardor is almost rivalled by the richness of his literary 
capacity which is nowhere more marked than here. In the Phsedrus, 
Socrates affirms the immortality of the soul in an apologue, that is 
interesting to posterity because it has escaped the theological petri- 
faction that has so often befallen the similar efforts of religious enthu- 
siasts to portray heavenly joys. From this point the talk glides into 
a criticism of rhetoric, and an alternative praise of philosophy as the 
wiser teacher. 

The Gorgias is another of the dialogues that carries the reader over 
a beaten track as well as into very deep waters. The talk plays about 
the shortcomings of rhetoric, with a most satisfactory refutation of 
the immortal commonplaces of worthy people that writing and speak- 
ing can and should be taught those who have nothing to say. This 
lesson is made clear only through long stumbling and groping that 
bear witness to the infancy of the art of logic, but when once stated it 
amounts to a serious indictment of the art that promises much and 
performs little. This is not all ; the controversy about rhetoric is 
made the vehicle for the expression of far higher truths ; Plato 
affirms the right of the private judgment concerning the beliefs of 
the multitude, and beneath a veil of irony he establishes three great 
ethical ideas : first, that it is a greater evil to do than to suffer injustice ; 
second, that it is better to suffer for wrong-doing than not to suffer ; 
third, that we do not what we will, but what we wish. 

Praise of Plato's art is as ineffectual as praise of beautiful scenery, 
or of a starlit night. ; it is at the best but a mumbling expression of 
the keen delight that one feels at seeing a difficult thing well done, 
and here it is most interesting to notice that Plato lets part of the 
defense of these grand truths be made against Callicles, who represents 
the average man of the world, whose cleverness and acuteness have 
made him a fair representative of the public sentiment that rests on 
conventionality. Just as a modern mathematician will read the work 
of one of the founders of that science with intelligent sympathy, so 
the sneers that Callicles utters against wisdom and serious thought 
will echo in the heart of many worthy men of the present day, who 



SOURCE OF PLATO'S INFLUENCE. 705 

detest no one more than an agitator who stirs up thought concerning 
what it is hoped may be regarded as settled principles. And who can 
say what strength may not have been drawn from these golden words 
of Socrates : 

" I tell you, Callicles, that to be boxed on the ears wrongfully is not the 
worst evil which can befall a man, nor to have my face and purse cut open, 
but that to smite and slay me and mine wrongfully is far more disgraceful 
and more evil ; aye, and to despoil and enslave and pillage, or in any way at 
all to wrong me and mine, is far more disgraceful and evil to the doer of the 
wrong than to me who am the sufferer. These truths which have been 
already set forth as I state them in the previous discussion, would seem now, 
if I may use an expression which is certainly bold, to have been fixed and 
riveted by us, in iron and adamantine bonds ; and unless you or some other 
still more interesting hero shall break them, there is no possibility of denying 
what I say. For what I am always saying is, that I know not the truth 
about these things, and yet that I have never known anybody who could say 
anything else, any more than you can, without being ridiculous." 

It is by these magnificent aspirations of a generous soul toward 
truth, by thus setting high the standard which future generations 
must reach, that Plato has won his place among the greatest teachers 
that the world has ever known ; and let us remember that this was at- 
tained by aspiration, not by inspiration. 

In the Cratylus there is a long discussion about what may be called 
metaphysical philology, that falls out of the line of the more moving 
dialogues. The First Alcibiades — the genuineness of which, as well 
as of the Lesser Hippias, referred to above, and of the Menexenos, is 
generally doubted — contains a conversation between Socrates and 
Alcibiades, in which the philosopher brings his younger friend to swift 
confession by showing him, or rather by leading him to see, his incom- 
petence for leadership. In the Sophist and the Statesman, Plato 
points out how sophists and statesmen respectively fall short of the 
philosopher in true wisdom ; and in the Parmenides he disposes of 
some of the philosophical notions of his contemporaries. In the 
Timaeus is a long and, to the eye of modern science, fantastic state- 
ment of Plato's notions regarding physiology, which is an attempt to 
explain the constitution of the universe by metaphysics. There is a 
grandeur about the whole conception, which also contains some happy 
guesses, but its main interest is as evidence of a remote condition of 
human thought when science is preceded by metaphysics ; possibly 
the domain of metaphysics, which now seems secure in its remote- 
ness, may in its turn become the prey of exact science. The Timaeus, 
obscure as it is, and perhaps on account of its very obscurity, for a 
long time controlled the early gropings of scientific thought and 



7° 6 PLATO. 

brought down, it may be, to a late period the imaginings of the early 
Pythagoreans, which represent even the hard and fast science of 
mathematics in its metaphysical stage. The Theatetus, again, con- 
tains a long philosophical conversation concerning knowledge, while 
in the Philebus it is pleasure that is the subject of the discussion. 
Yet most of these dialogues are valuable mainly for the light that 
they throw on the inevitable floundering of men who are groping 
toward metaphysical clearness and have not yet learned the rudi- 
ments of logic. Moreover, the grace and dramatic vividness of what 
are apparently the earlier dialogues are lacking in these severer studies. 

VI. 

This difference is more clearly seen when we compare the early 
Republic with the later Laws. The Republic is perhaps the best 
known of the writings of Plato ; it offers the reader a practical appli- 
cation of many of the separate theories of the rest of the dia- 
logues. That this concentration of his hopes and plans took the 
form of a reconstitution of the state makes it clear that the rehabili- 
tation of the government had for a long time been the subject of 
many thinkers' meditations. Not only is it true in general that a 
question is never answered until it is asked, but in this particular case 
we know that the possible regeneration of Athens had been a widely 
studied problem, The Birds and the Ecclesiazusae of Aristophanes, 
with their derision of fantastic projects of improvement, show this, and 
Xenophon's advocacy of the Lacedaemonian system of government is a 
further proof of the general interest in the subject. Then the political 
disturbances in Athens at about the end of the Peloponnesian war are 
unmistakable examples of the prevailing discontent with democracy. 
Plato had certainly reasonable grounds for indignation with the popu- 
lace for their condemnation of Socrates, and throughout his work we 
find very sufficient instances of his discontent with his contempora- 
ries. This point of view was that of an aristocrat with great contempt 
for the populace— 

— " who are unacquainted with wisdom and virtue, and who spend their time 
in perpetual banqueting and similar indulgences, are carried down, as it 
appears, and back again only as far as the midway point on the upward 
road ; and between these limits they roam their life long, without ever over- 
stepping them so as to look up towards, or be carried to, the true Above : 
and they have never been really filled with what is real, or tasted sure and 
unmingled pleasure ; but, like cattle, they are always looking downwards, 
and hanging their heads to the ground, and poking them into their dining- 
tables, while they graze and get fat and propagate their species ; and to 
satiate their greedy desire for these enjoyments, they kick and butt with 



ARISTOCRATIC SPIRIT OF THE REPUBLIC. 707 

hoofs and horns of iron, till they kill one another under the influence of 
ravenous appetites." 

These words are placed by Plato in the mouth of his ideal Socrates, 
in the Republic, but the real Socrates had much more confidence in 
the Athenians, of whom he said that if they went wrong, the fault lay 
in their leaders. 

Plato had seen the decay of popular government, the wreck of an 
oligarchy in Athens, and the abomination of despotism in Sicily ; his 
sole hope lay in the careful training of a few intelligent young men ; 
the masses he regarded as the instigators of all evil. His denuncia- 
tions of Sophists and poets were consistent parts of his general con- 
tempt for the populace. Athens was enfeebled, and the old energy 
which had been employed in defending its imperial powers was now 
wasting itself in private litigation and excessive legislation. Almost 
every matter was finally settled in the courts of law, and to acquire 
any influence before these it was necessary to acquire a certain mas- 
tery of oratory, which was communicated by the Sophists, who 
affirmed that their new art of rhetoric took the place of all other 
education. The poets, too, were always busy composing or repeating 
discreditable myths about the gods, which excited the wrath of Plato, 
and he was furthermore indignant with them for their inability to ex- 
plain their own work, and for their persistent imitation of one another. 
The fact that they too claimed a sort of omniscience, as did the 
Sophists, aroused Plato's jealousy of their influence, especially since 
their success crowded out the claims of his philosophy for recogni- 
tion. The love of higher things, which was the basis of his teaching, 
could only be comprehended by the few, and this intellectual aristoc- 
racy was the source whence sprang the whole aristocratic structure of 
his Republic. 

The theories of reformation are commonly aristocratic, but reform 
itself is always democratic, and the Republic is the head of a long line 
of imaginary remodelings of this world of ours which rest on the good 
that a few choice spirits are to communicate to their inferiors. Ac- 
cording to Plato's scheme, there is to be strict subdivision of occu- 
pations among the citizens of the model state, and the load of govern- 
ment is to be borne by the oldest and wisest of these, called the Guar- 
dians. The training of these Guardians is described at considerable 
length ; they are to be encouraged in bravery, and hear only stories 
that inculcate honor, courage ; no Puritans were ever severer than 
Plato against the enervating lessons of the poets. He shares, too, 
their austerity in what he says about music ; the only musical instru- 
ments to be allowed the Guardians being the lyre, the guitar, and the 



708 PLATO. 

pipe, and music must be simple and purifying. He lays much weight 
on their gymnastic training. These men will form the military class, 
and from their number the best are to be chosen, who are to rule 
according to the laws of strict conservatism : they are not to let the 
state grow too large ; they must resist all modifications of the pre- 
scribed music and gymnastics, and they must prevent or remove ex- 
cessive wealth or extreme poverty. With regard to the citizens, their 
occupations are rigidly subdivided. The whole plan, in a word, is one 
that is to be regulated by philosophers ; it was not the lion, it will be 
remembered, who painted the picture. Curiously enough, there is a 
distinct resemblance, which writers have pointed out, between this 
ideal state and the construction of mediaeval society. The strict sub- 
division of the men of the Republic into the wise rulers, the brave 
warriors, and the manual laborers or tradesmen, and the prominence 
given to the military class, which is sharply distinguished from the in- 
dustrial, remind us of the Middle Ages ; and the devotion to the study 
of the good which was enforced from philosophers is like the religious 
lives of the priests. Plato recommended the community of women 
and children : one of the main features of mediaeval society was the 
partial abolition of marriage and property, and in both the ideal and 
real states women were admitted to the privilege of holding positions 
of responsibility. The similarity of the later facts to the earlier theo- 
ries may be explained in part, perhaps, as an effort to carry into effect 
the Platonic thoughts which were of enormous weight in early Chris- 
tianity ; while other influences were those springing from the decay of 
society and barbarian conquest, which called forth the crudities which 
Plato secured by willfully abandoning the civilization of his time. 
The main resemblance lay in this, that both the Republic and the 
mediaeval society did not build up a social unit, every part of which 
should be animated by a single feeling, but rather chose a favorite 
class, of philosophers by Plato, of priests in the Middle Ages, who 
should carry on the good work and be revered by the rest. Possibly 
this is a sufficient explanation of the many curious resemblances : like 
effects followed like causes. 

Yet apart from the practicability of Plato's scheme is the spirit in 
which it is devised, and while setting the world right is a task beyond 
any one man's power, this attempt is the means of uttering much valu- 
able criticism and comment concerning social and political affairs. It 
is easy to pick flaws in the plan, but it still remains a monument of 
honorable enthusiasm, not without the pathos that surrounds every 
failure of a generous spirit. What we notice in the Republic is its 
buoyancy, and especially when we contrast it with the Laws, which 
was written later, and again grapples with the problem of a perfect 



THE SCOPE AND PURPOSE OF THE LAWS. 7°9 

state. As in some of his later dialogues, the accustomed grace and 
lightness of touch are gone ; the machinery creaks, as it were, and 
instead of argument we have dogmatic assertion, and in place of dis- 
cussion, formal assent. While the Republic is an ideal state, the Laws 
is an attempt to portray the best state possible for Greece under the 
existing conditions. Many of the principles are alike in the two 
schemes : the rules regarding education have many points of resem- 
blance ; there are to be strict regulations concerning music and songs ; 
poets remain in disfavor, but in the Laws less prominence is given to 
the Philosophers. We see in the Republic how much the Spartan 
system had impressed Plato, in the Laws he adds some of the good 
points of Athenian life. Yet he is averse to a naval power, which 
was one of the strongest weapons of Athens. The community of 
wives and children is given up, as well as the overweighing influence 
of philosophers. The question of the use of wine makes its appear- 
ance as a legislative problem. A strict conservatism controls the later 
state, and it is rigidly ruled by its council of government. After all, 
two attempted solutions of an impossible question are more than 
enough, and the world has taken its revenge by questioning the genu- 
ineness of the later scheme. 

These two great dialogues, with the speculative Philebus and the 
Critias, with its account of the imaginary island of Atlantis, that has 
teased some readers into the belief that it refers to a legendary memory 
of America, complete the list of his accepted writings. How far- 
reaching these are, even this meager analysis may show, yet it is to be 
remembered that even from this abundance of material no separate 
system, which we can definitely call Platonism, is to be drawn. This 
fact the reader must bear in mind, as well as, to speak frankly, the 
repellant quality of much of Plato's work. This side of it is generally 
ignored by commentators, who are happiest when struggling with the 
inexplicable, and many a student, whose soul has been fired by the 
indiscriminate raptures that accompany every mention of Plato's 
name in cultivated society, has been left stranded on the barren quib- 
bling and incomprehensible arguments of some of the interlocutors. 
It is true of Plato, as of every other writer, that he is at his best only 
occasionally, and it is truer of him than of most others, that when he 
is obscure, and that is not seldom, he defies comprehension more 
successfully than even most philosophers. 

Yet apart from and above these difficulties there stands the image 
of the great man who tested and examined all the opinions of his time 
and left everywhere the touch of his inspiring enthusiasm. What he 
did was to give the world a sense of the infinite, and if he failed to 
define it clearly, the fault did not lie in him. As has been said before, 



7IO PLATO. 

the core of Plato's philosophy is his theory of ideas, which assigned to 
them independent existence outside of the accidents to which the 
objects themselves were exposed. Thus the archetypal idea of a bed, 
of which real beds are but blundering copies, has existed from all time ; 
and so with abstract ideas of justice, of the good, etc.; these are the 
truly existing things whereof life is an imperfect copy. The highest 
idea is that of the good, which seems to be identified with deity. 
Thus, it will be noticed, philosophy received from Plato a theological 
form, which was perhaps an inevitable result when speculation found 
its home in Athens. Yet the theology that he taught rose far above 
the ordinary Athenian superstitions ; he set morality much higher 
than the conventionality of ritualism, and made religion consist in an 
intelligent imitation of God rather than in blind obedience. He 
taught the immortality of the soul and a pure monotheism, while the 
conduct of life was to be pure and virtue was to be desired, not 
because it ensured a pleasing reward, but because it was the sole health 
and well-being of the soul. Throughout, it was closely connected with 
knowledge, indeed inseparable from it, thus appealing to the two most 
elevating tendencies of human character. Is it wonderful that his 
immortal writings, masterpieces of mere literature as they are, should 
have formed a rich source of generous inspiration for countless 
ardent spirits? 

It is to these fervent and elevating principles that Plato owes his 
vast influence upon subsequent ages rather than to any practicability 
in his plans for reforming society, and to take this last as the sole test, 
besides being simply impossible, would lead to the condemnation of 
nearly all the good that is advocated by priests and sages. Modern 
experience proves the narrowness of his carefully formed designs, but 
the world has not exhausted all the profit that is to be derived from 
his ardent love of justice and wisdom. What the world values is the 
height of aspiration ; the statement of particulars can never be made 
precise without being faulty or defective ; every law, no matter how 
carefully devised and guarded, is at some time or another the instru- 
ment of injustice ; every rule that deals in the least with definitions is 
sooner or later found to be incompetent or wrong. The intricacy of 
the world defies definition and codification, exactly as the complica- 
tions of human action present continual combinations unimagined by 
legislators. In other words, everything except such general state- 
ments as " Do right," ct Love virtue," etc., lose their original clearness 
when one asks, what is right ? what is virtue ? and hears conflicting 
answers. But what prevails is the ardor with which these vague com- 
mands are uttered and the generosity with which their application is 
inculcated. Here Plato takes his place among the world's great mas- 



THE MORAL SYSTEM OF PLATO. 7 11 

ters by his ingenuity and eloquence, and the remote and divergent 
possibilities of the enthusiasm he has inspired and nourished attest the 
fruitfulness of his lessons. On the whole, different as have been the 
results of his teaching, they have been alike in one thing, in hopeful- 
ness and optimistic confidence. What all men aim at who strive to 
build up something better than the apparent possibilities of life, finds 
encouragement and support in his buoyant zeal ; and just as evil is 
long-lived though cures abound, and, after martyrs have bled and 
died, the great world goes on blundering and sinning, yet the intense 
devotion of saints and sages, like all enthusiasms, counts as one of the 
forces forming the resultant that finds its expression in the thoughts 
and life of men. 

Generally, the highest appeals have been of a religious sort, but in 
Plato we have the exceptional appearance of a man who speaks of all 
the higher duties from the point of view of, so to speak, a worldling. 
Whether this be an advantage or not will be temporarily determined 
some hundreds — or is it thousands ? — of years hence, but now it may 
be acknowledged that the position which he has won for himself is at 
least interesting, because we see in him a man contending for what is 
the aim of saint and sage alike, for righteousness, with weapons of the 
intellect and not of the emotions. He applies to life what is, after all, 
the final test, that of the intelligence, and although he often does this 
unintelligently, in other words without the evidence that has since 
grown around a difficult subject, and doubtless without due compre- 
hension of all the evidence before him, — for it must not be forgotten, 
notwithstanding all that is said about Plato, he was a human being, — 
yet, in spite of these objections, his aim was the noblest and his method 
the fullest that the world has known. The Socrates who is the mouth- 
piece for his instructions is, as it were, an unconsecrated religious 
teacher, who speaks not from a pulpit but in the market-place, and 
wholly without the remoteness from living interests which draws a bar 
between priests and laity in modern times. His authority is what he 
wrings in the shape of concessions from his most obstinate foes. 
Thus his magnificent declaration that it is better to suffer than to do 
wrong is proved by an irresistible line of argument that overcomes the 
most persistent opposition. His antagonists are not the customary 
men of straw whom we are accustomed to see falling at the first word 
of a philosopher's argument, but real incarnations of the world's op- 
position to new and improving truths. How thoroughly this view 
belonged to Plato we may infer from Xenophon's report of the state- 
ment of Socrates that true virtue consisted in kindness to one's friends 
and hostility to one's enemies, which was not a perversion of his own, 
but merely the expression of the current opinion ; and in the story 



7 1 2 pz^f ra 

that is reported of the rich Corinthian who was so moved by Plato's 
words that, like another unnamed enthusiast, he gave up all he pos- 
sessed to devote himself to the new doctrine, we may see the inspira- 
tion that was drawn from his teaching. 

It is this continual assertion of the superiority of the higher law 
that preserves Plato's importance, when his peculiarly metaphysical 
significance would interest only a small number, for all men are con- 
cerned with moral questions, and those who are interested in meta- 
physical questions are fewer. In him we find the culmination of all 
the gradual breaking up of the old religion, and of the enlargement of 
the ethical synthesis that had been going on in one way or another 
under the philosophers from the time that they began to question ex- 
isting opinions. Of the influence of his words upon early Christianity 
this is not the place to speak. Evidence of its extent is easily found, 
and, like most evidence, it has been differently judged by men of 
opposing views. Some thought that Plato derived what he had to say 
from what were called the inspired books ; others held that the early 
Christians drew inspiration from him. A curious similarity of state- 
ment between him and the Fathers is the least thing that these con- 
flicting opinions prove, and in studying the history of thought it is 
impossible to overlook any testimony that shows its condition at any 
given time. It is at least undeniable that we find in his teachings the 
recommendation to philosophers, or lovers of wisdom, to hold them- 
selves aloof from the things of this world ; and in his praise of justice, 
which was the whole aim of his noble life, we may see what a spur was 
given to men's contemplation of a lofty ideal. His teaching of immor- 
tality again could not have been without result. For an example of 
what even the most reluctant to consider it must call a curious coin- 
cidence, we may take these words from the end of the Republic, where 
he describes the course of a soul after death : 

" His story was, that when the soul had gone out of him, it travelled in 
company with many others, till they came to a mysterious place, in which 
were two gaps above in the heaven. Between these gaps sate judges, who, 
after passing sentence, commanded the just to take the road to the right up- 
wards through the heaven, and fastened in front of them some symbol of the 
judgment that had been given ; while the unjust had been ordered to take 
the road downwards to the left, and also carried behind them evidence of all 
their evil deeds." 

VII. 

While Plato has held a lofty position for many centuries, his im- 
mediate followers inclined rather toward subdividing their master's 
teaching than toward handing it down as a whole. On his death, 



THE SUCCESSORS OF PLATO. 7 J 3 

Plato was succeeded by his nephew Speusippus, born in Athens about 
393 B.C., and living until 339 B.C. He carried on instruction in the 
Academy, according to his uncle's directions. He represented the 
Old Academy, as it was called ; the divisions, which represented dif- 
ferent philosophical tendencies, being known as the Middle and 
New Academy, respectively. Speusippus taught that there was an 
orderly series of existences, whereof the divine was the highest in 
rank and the latest in development. The mathematical principles 
which Plato had helped to make the basis of subsequent investiga- 
tion were somewhat developed by him. Speusippus was succeeded 
by Xenocrates of Chalcedon (396-314 B.C.), who went further in the 
same direction and identified ideas with numbers. He discriminated 
between things sensible, intelligible, and intermediate things, which 
lay between the other two, and so were matters of opinion. The 
dwindling of the early inspiration seems to be the clearest result of 
this philosophizing. Polemo, who followed Xenocrates, turned his 
attention mainly to ethical teaching. Among others who held the 
position of pupils of Plato were Eudoxus of Cnidus, famous as a 
geometrician ; Heraclides of Heraclea, who made interesting mathe- 
matical investigations that convinced him of the revolution of the 
earth upon its axis. Crantor, on the other hand, was interested in 
ethics. The mantle of Plato, it will be seen, was soon reduced to 
shreds. The Middle Academy was more sceptical ; the most impor- 
tant names mentioned in connection with it are those of Arcesilas 
(315-241 B.C.), and Carneades (214-129 B.C.). Arcesilas was the succes- 
sor of Crates, who was director of the school after Polemo. The New 
Academy began with Philo of Larissa, who lived at the time of the 
first Mithridatic War. He, and his disciple Antiochus, inclined 
toward the doctrines of the Stoics. 



VIII. 

Ath. — When I see you thus earnest, I feel impelled to offer up a prayer, 
and can no longer refrain. Who can be calm when he is called upon to prove 
the existence of the Gods ? Who can avoid hating and abhorring the men 
who are and have been the cause of this argument ; I speak of those who 
will not believe the words which they have heard as babes and sucklings 
from their mothers and nurses, repeated by them both in jest and earnest, 
like charms, who have also heard and seen their parents offering up sacrifices 
and prayers — sights and sounds delightful to children — sacrificing, I say, 
in the most earnest manner on behalf of them and of themselves, and with 
eager interest talking to the Gods, and beseeching them, as though they were 
firmly convinced of their existence; who likewise see and hear the genuflexions 
and prostrations which are made by Hellenes and barbarians to the rising 
and setting sun and moon, in all the various turns of good and evil fortune, 



714 



PLA TO. 



not as if they thought that there were no Gods, but as if there could be no 
doubt of their existence, and no suspicion of their non-existence ; when men, 
knowing all these things, despise them on no real grounds, as would be ad- 
mitted by all who have any particle of intelligence, and when they force us 
to say what we are now saying, how can any one in gentle terms remonstrate 
with the like of them, when he has to begin by proving to them the very ex- 
istence of the Gods? Yet the attempt must be made ; for it would be un- 
seemly that one-half of mankind should go mad in their lust of pleasure, and 
the other half in righteous indignation at them. Our address to these lost 
and perverted natures should not be spoken in passion ; let us suppose our- 
selves to select some one of them, and gently reason with him, smothering 
our anger : — O my son, we say to him, you are young, and the advance of 
time will make you reverse many of the opinions which you now hold. Wait, 
therefore, until the time comes, and do not attempt to judge of high matters 
at present ; and that is the highest of which you think nothing — to know 
the Gods rightly and to live accordingly. And in the first place let me indi- 
cate to you one point which is of great importance, and of the truth of which 
I am quite certain : — You and your friends are not the first who have held 
this opinion about the Gods. There have always been persons more or less 
numerous who have had the same disorder. I have known many of them, 
and can tell you, that no one who had taken up in youth this opinion, that 
the Gods do not exist, ever continued in the same until he was old ; the two 
other notions certainly do continue in some cases, but not in many ; the 
notion, I mean, that the Gods exist, but take no heed of human things, and 
also the notion that they do not take heed of them, but are easily propitiated 
with sacrifices and prayers. What may be the true doctrine, if you are 
patient, and take my advice, you will hereafter discover, by the help of the 
legislator and others. In the mean time take heed lest you offend about the 
Gods. For the duty of the legislator is and always will be to teach you the 
truth of these matters. 




SCHOOL ROOM. 



CHAPTER III.— ARISTOTLE. 

I. — Aristotle's Unfortunate Rivalry with Plato. His Life. His Influence, Especially 
in the Middle Ages. The Consequences of Exaggerated Praise Not Unknown to 
Aristotle's Fame. II. — His Relations to his Predecessors. His Interest in 
Scientific Study. His Writings; their Lack of Literary Charm. The Manner of 
their Preservation. III. — His Conception of Philosophy, and his Division of its 
Functions. The Breadth of its Interests. The Politics, etc. His Repellent 
Style Compared with the Charm of Plato's. The Safe Middle -Path which he 
Follows. His Cool Wisdom, IV. — The Poetics ; its Importance to Modern 
Literature. V. — Extracts. VI. — The Peripatetics, and the Latest Course of 
Philosophy. Epicureans and Stoics. 

I. 

THE real successor of Plato was Aristotle, whose influence on the 
thought of the world has been second only to that of his illustri- 
ous master. Yet the lamentable partisanship of cultivated men, which 
leads them, when mention is made of prominent names in any depart- 
ment of thought, to praise their favorite by denouncing his rival, has 
found in Plato and Aristotle an admirable opportunity for exercise, so 
that defamation of one continually alternates with extravagant lauda- 
tion of the other. The world is wide enough for both, however ; 
sympathy with the intellectual and ethical enthusiasm of Plato need 
not render one insensible to the austerer merits of his rival. With 
regard to both it will be necessary to exercise the toleration due to 
men who lived when the subjects which they studied were yet com- 
paratively in their infancy. 

Aristotle was born 384 B.C. ; that is, it will be noticed, exactly one 
century later than Herodotus, at Stagira, a town on the eastern coast 
of the Strymonic Gulf, whence the philosopher was given his familiar 
title, the Stagirite. His birthplace lay in a region that was at one 
time part of Thrace and at another that of Macedon, and was thus 
exposed to all the vicissitudes of war until between 350 and 347 B.C., 
Philip razed it among the thirty-two cities that he wiped out of exis- 
tence for presuming to revolt against his power. His father was 
Nicomachus, an Asclepiad, or descendant of ^Esculapius, according to 
the tradition which made that mythical founder of medical science 
the ancestor of those who practiced it. Of the early education of 
Aristotle we know but little ; and the earliest authority from whom 



716 



ARISTOTLE. 



our information is drawn lived six centuries later, a period during 
which it is impossible that legend should not have grown up about so 
remarkable a man. Yet accepting the familiar accounts in place of 
anything better, we learn that when Aristotle was about seventeen or 
eighteen years old he made his way to Athens, still the intellectual 
center of the world, and there he soon placed himself under Plato's in- 
struction. Concerning his intercourse with Plato much gossip survives. 
We are told not only that Aristotle was extravagant and foppish, but 
that he also justly offended his teacher by acts of irreverence. On the 
other hand, we are told, what seems quite as likely, that the young 

stranger won his elder's re- 
spect by his devotion to 
his studies, and Plato is 
said to have called him the 
mind of the school, as well 
as the reader. That in 
time there grew up in Aris- 
totle's mind serious oppo- 
sition to many of the Pla- 
tonic theories is true, but 
the details handed down to 
us are of the nature of 
anecdotes, not facts. Aris- 
totle remained twenty years 
in Athens, growing steadily 
in reputation as a student 
and as a teacher, giving in- 
struction in rhetoric as well 
as in philosophy. On the 
death of Plato, he accepted 
the invitation of Hermias, 
ruler of Atarneus, to visit 
him, but this patron was 
soon after assassinated, and 
Aristotle fled to Mytilene with the adopted daughter of Hermias, 
Pythias, whom he subsequently married. Soon after reaching 
Mytilene, he was invited by Philip to take charge of the education 
of Alexander, a proposition which he accepted. For four years he 
remained there, until at eighteen Alexander became Regent. How 
considerable was the influence of Aristotle and how important the 
reward of his pupil is a matter of uncertainty. It is said that the 
despot gave Aristotle vast sums to help him in his studies, but while 
this is likely enough, the facts are vague. In 355 B.C., Aristotle returned 




ARISTOTLE. 



SAYINGS OF ARISTOTLE— VICISSITUDES OF HIS FAME. 717 

to Athens, where he remained for thirteen years, teaching in the peri- 
patos, or walking-place, of the Lyceum, whence, or from the word 
meaning to walk about, his disciples were called the Peripatetics. The 
death of Alexander gave new hopes to the party opposed to Macedon, 
and Aristotle was an object of attack, ostensibly on the ground of 
blasphemy, for he was accused of conferring divine honors upon mor- 
tals, that is, upon his wife and Hermias. Aristotle remembered the 
fate of Socrates, and discreetly withdrew, " in order not to give the 
Athenians a second opportunity to commit sacrilege against philoso- 
phy," as he is reported to have said. Shortly afterward he died, in 
322 B.C., in the sixty-third year of his age. 

The early Fathers of the Church were not displeased to gather and 
to retail anecdotes that set this formidable pagan in an unfavorable 
light, and doubtless their prejudices were protected by the Neo-plato- 
nists, whose influence on the beginnings of Christianity was considerable; 
they certainly had in their hearts no love for Aristotle. Yet we have 
received from other sources some of his sayings which confirm the 
report of his wit and generosity. On being told that some one had 
spoken ill of him in his absence, he said that his maligner was welcome 
to beat him — in his absence. When he was reproached with giving 
aid to an unworthy man, he made answer that he sympathized with 
him not on account of character, but because he was a man. Some 
one asked him why the society of handsome people was agreeable : 
" That is a blind man's question," he replied. 

" The Athenians have discovered two things, wheat and laws," he 
said ; "they know how to use the wheat, but not the laws." 

" Hope is a waking dream." 

Whatever may be the authenticity of these reported sayings, there is 
no doubt that what is left of Aristotle's writings confirms the impres- 
sion of his intelligence and acuteness, yet it would be hard to name 
another eminent man whose fame has known such great vicissitudes. 
While in the Middle Ages he was the one infallible intellectual guide, 
and through the translation of Boethius established the lines on which 
the philosophy of that period was to move, for two hundred years his 
power has been broken and his name, after being treated with violent 
scorn, has been again the object of extravagant laudation as well as of 
virulent abuse. As we shall see later, his treatise on the art of writing 
poetry was the corner-stone of pseudo-classic literature ; but he has 
paid for the reverence with which he was once treated, by enduring 
something not unlike religious persecution. When medievalism 
revived early in this centuryAristotle's fame arose anew, and there was 
a brief recrudescence of his ancient glory along with the revival of 
Gothic architecture ; and Hegel found undreamed-of merit in his 



7*8 ARISTOTLE. 

philosophy at the time when old armor came into use for household 
decoration, and glaziers began to receive orders for diamond-shaped 
window-panes. Where mediaevalism still survives, as in the English 
universities, the name of Aristotle is still glorified. These statements 
are curious when we remember that Plato's ideal state bore a notice- 
able resemblance to the condition of society in the Middle Ages, and 
that Aristotle was the expression of an inevitable reaction ; the irony 
of history could go no further. There is this to be said, however, that 
one important part of Plato's Republic is authority, the authority of 
the philosophers, and that he is far from being the only man who has 
thought that what he regarded as the truth had been found, and that 
although it had been discovered in freedom, it should be enforced by 
law rather than entrusted to the perils of discussion and prejudiced 
abuse. Indeed, the way in which the lofty ethical teachings of Chris- 
tianity were petrified into a rigid code during the Middle Ages is 
another instance of the difference between hoping for and holding 
supreme command. Observers have already noticed how many liberal 
crown-princes there are and how few liberal kings — or, one might say, 
how many promising young men there are in this country, and how 
few wise Presidents — and Plato's Republic, with its full discussion of 
society, may serve to show how some liberal thinkers would like to 
establish free thought. There is no occasion for surprise; for persecu- 
tion, if not a proof of wisdom, is certainly one of zeal. 

That Aristotle should have become the instrument of authority is 
very natural, for at the very moment when intellectual liberty most 
languished, the chosen guide would not be the man whose words were 
animated by the utmost enthusiasm for freedom, even if he preached 
absolutism. The Platonic Socrates would have been a disturbing 
citizen in his own state, and the one of Plato's dialogues that had the 
most influence on mediaeval thought was the Timaeus, which was far 
from supplying either scientific or spiritual nutriment of a lasting kind. 
In Aristotle there was found a man who at least laid down the law, if 
not always perfectly intelligibly, yet with firmness and vigor, and he 
became an authority who was regarded as inspired. 

While it is one advantage of the present time that the past is 
studied in a scientific spirit, Aristotle's reputation has still suffered 
from the exaggerations of those admirers who maintain that in his 
writings are to be found all the germs of modern science, clearly 
visible, if indeed not almost wholly developed. These statements are 
met by the counter-affirmation that nothing of the sort is to be seen 
there. In the examination of the works of a metaphysician and of a 
scientific man, obviously the first of these, who makes absolute state- 
ments about what transcends human experience, runs less risk of 



ESTIMATE OF ARISTOTLE'S SCIENTIFIC THEORIES. 719 

refutation than does a man who speaks on subjects that can be tested 
by all his readers who have trained eyes. Hence, Plato may be 
ignored or not counted as a contributor to our knowledge of the 
unseen, but Aristotle is exposed to the disapprobation of those who 
care to make a comparison between his assertions and the facts that have 
been discovered by modern science. Examined in this way, — and the 
test is a severe one, — Aristotle can not fail to receive an unfavorable 
judgment ; what he said he saw, has never been seen by mortal man ; 
what he failed to see, is obvious to even superficial observers. His 
alleged anticipations of recent discoveries are few and unimportant, not 
so interesting as many of the happy conjectures of his predecessors, 
although many of those were the merest guesses, built upon no foun- 
dations, and as valueless scientifically as were the wishes of many peo- 
ple that they could talk together by means of an electric wire valueless 
as prior claims to the invention of the telephone. Many of these 
earlier hypotheses he treated with disdain for reasons which were 
inaccurate and misleading ; and the explanations of his own which he 
offered in their place were frequently trivial and generally wrong. 
Yet, to judge Aristotle in this way, while it may serve to correct 
intemperate praise, is scarcely fairer than it would be to determine the 
value of Solon's legislation by comparing it with the common law of 
England. We can not estimate the value of his work by what we have 
learned to perceive by simple observation. It is easy to sneer at 
Aristotle for making statements of so-called facts which may be con- 
tradicted even by beginners in modern times, yet we should remember 
that intelligent observation is the difficult result of long training ; that 
preconceived notions, the tendency to exaggerate, and overlook what 
may support or contradict an existing theory, are likely to mislead the 
student. The history of science, as of literature and of art, is a long 
record of the obstacles that thwart simplicity and directness. 

II. 

A safer way of examining Aristotle's contributions to knowledge 
is by comparing it with what preceded it and what followed. To 
expect that by sheer effort of genius he should have solved questions 
that only reluctantly unfolded their secret to patient toil, made easier 
by instruments undreamt of in antiquity, merely shows how thin is 
the veneering of scientific training when men imagine that its results 
will be miraculously attained. Looked at in this way, that is to say, 
with regard to its position in the history of thought, Aristotle's per- 
formance deserves to be called the first real scientific work that the 
world had known. The earlier philosophers who had grappled with 



7 20 ARISTOTLE. 

the cosmos had devised theories of a poetical kind, each one fasten- 
ing, as Grote has said, " upon some one grand and imposing general- 
ization (set forth often in verse) which he stretched as far as it would 
go by various comparisons and illustrations, but without any attention 
to adverse facts or reasonings. Provided that his general point of 
view was impressive to the imagination, as the old religious scheme 
was to the vulgar, he did not concern himself about the conditions of 
proof or disproof." Zeno and Socrates began the dialectical discus- 
sion which showed how vague and unsatisfactory were such systems, 
Zeno by the baffling arguments that landed his opponents in absurdi- 
ties, and Socrates by making ethics of more importance than the trans- 
cendental physics of his predecessors. And the method of Socrates 
was full of instruction for Aristotle, whose endeavor it was to give 
not merely to ethics, but to the whole subject of philosophy, a ground 
to stand on that did not depend on fancy or taste, but was fixed, abso- 
lute, and undeniable ; in short, to give it a scientific basis. This step, 
which, it will be noticed, is anything but miraculous, follows closely 
on the work of his predecessors; without that,it could not have been 
taken, and its direction was in the line, though in advance, of the 
natural development of thought, only intensified and made more 
urgent by reaction from Plato. The brilliancy and eloquence of this 
famous idealist indubitably went for much in accenting Aristotle's dis- 
trust of intuitions as the ground of all real knowledge, and his confi- 
dence in sensuous perception. The method which he established, 
the principle of induction, is simply the method of our whole lives, 
so far as they are under the control of reason, and of the great wealth 
of modern science. Errors in his statement of this instrument of 
thought, as well as far more numerous and more curious errors in its 
application, have been often pointed out, but every beginner stumbles 
over obstacles that do not in the least trouble his followers. In spite 
of crudity and blundering, Aristotle saw, even if not with perfect clear- 
ness, what seemed to be the only profitable method for scientific work, 
and endeavored to apply it to the whole field of human knowledge. 
This is what gave him his enormous influence later, and wins for him 
the respect which is still his due. So much good work does not need 
to be exaggerated in order to be admired, or to be overpraised to prove 
interesting. 

Aristotle's writings, which are fortunately many in number, demand 
careful, dispassionate criticism. His style is as unlike Plato's as possible. 
He is never eloquent, or pathetic, or brilliant ; all the grace and charm 
of the earlier philosopher died with him ; all the dramatic vividness 
is missing in the somewhat professorial utterance of the Stagirite, 
whose writings often read like the notes of a lecturer who is very indif- 



SYSTEM OF RHETORIC— VICISSITUDES OF HIS WRITINGS. 7 21 

ferent to literary form. It is easy to believe that his instruction in 
rhetoric was very unlike that of most of the Greek teachers of this art, 
and that he had but little in common with the flowery Isocrates, who 
was by far the most prominent of them all, and his most powerful 
rival. Certainly, the habit of the professional instructors, of compel- 
ling their pupils to learn approved speeches by heart, may well have 
dissatisfied others than Aristotle, who compared such counselors to 
a master who should teach his apprentices how to make shoes, by 
giving them a large number already made, to study. His own plan 
bears a likeness rather to instructing them in the anatomy of the foot, 
a method which is tardily producing good shoes, as a similar scientific 
method raises rhetoric from the state of mere imitation. In dialectics, 
too, the teachers made their pupils learn a certain number of dia- 
logues by rote, and the same objection applied here. Aristotle's 
method, which he acknowledged might be defective, was one, however, 
in the right direction, toward a scientific study of logic. 

A curious difficulty exists with regard to the writings of Aristotle. 
Not only have many been lost, and have ungenuine works found a 
place among those ascribed to him, while the authenticity of others is 
a matter of controversy, but there is also a curious lack of harmony 
between the list of his writings mentioned by the ancients and those 
that have come down to us. What seems probable is that most of 
his early writings, which possessed a literary charm wholly absent in 
what has reached us, have been lost, and that we possess his later and 
more serious work. The story of the preservation of his work is most 
romantic ; whether it has other claims to attention may be doubted. 
The story hangs together with suspicious exactness. It seems, if the 
report is to be believed, that when Aristotle died his library and manu- 
scripts came into the possession of Theophrastus, who was the head of 
the Peripatetic school until he died in 287 B.C. This collection Theo- 
phrastus left to Neleus, who carried it to his home at Shepsis, in ^Eolis, 
and there it remained in the hands of the descendants of Neleus for 
nearly two hundred years. Rather, not in the hands, but in their 
cellar, to preserve it from the kings of Pergamos, who, like modern 
borrowers, used to enlarge their libraries by helping themselves to the 
books of others. When this region came into the possession of the Ro- 
mans, the ban was removed, and the cellar emptied. The manuscripts 
were purchased by Apellicon, a rich Athenian, who tried his hand, 
though unsuccessfully, at editing the treasures thus exhumed. When 
Sylla captured Athens, he found the fashion of annexing libraries 
supported by good authority, and he took the library of Apellicon to 
Rome, where the Aristotelian writings were classified and edited by 
the Rhodian Andronicus, and the popular works of Aristotle fell into 



72 2 ARISTOTLE. 

disrepute while these solider ones began to be studied. What we 
have of the Stagirite is due to this lucky chance. Such, at least, is 
the story, which comes down to us full of detail ; but, it may be worth 
our while to notice, we treat the ancients with a manifestation of 
gratitude that is the delight of cynics. That is to say, when they 
slur over the incidents, we abuse them for their reticence ; and when 
they recount them at considerable length, we refuse to believe them. 

III. 

Philosophy, according to Aristotle, is a science apart with a distinct 
aim, the knowledge of the absolute, and thus including all the sepa- 
rate sciences, each one of which is a distinct philosophy. Herein he 
affirmed what the Sophists and Skeptics denied, namely, the possi- 
bility of science as something attainable by the human intellect. 
Man alone possesses speech, whereby we can give utterance to our 
conceptions ; and by means of our reason we conceive things as they 
are. The general methods of expression, or parts of speech, the cate- 
gories, enumerated below, correspond to the different forms in which 
we conceive them or to the categories of our perception of them these 
categories again expressing the possible relation of objects to one an- 
other. Such, briefly stated, was the groundwork of Aristotle's notion 
of the possible ends to be accomplished by the human mind, and its 
universality marks a new period in thought, when a wide, general 
scheme could be conceived. Naturally, this is incomplete in view of 
the enormous enlargement of men's knowledge, but this objection, if 
it be an objection, is insignificant when we consider the conditions 
under which it was formed. Obviously, too, we shall find the method 
by which it was carried out depending on the contemporaneous con- 
dition of men's knowledge. 

Logic, Physics, and Ethics were the main subjects of philosophy 
before the time of Aristotle, and they thus demanded and received his 
especial study. Yet while in Plato all these matters were blended to- 
gether under the head of intellectual interests, in Aristotle we find 
them sharply discriminated and further divided into Logic, Rhetoric, 
Metaphysics, Physics, Psychology, Ethics, Politics, and ^Esthetics. 
In what order these subjects are to be studied is a question with 
many diverse answers, for what Aristotle said and what he meant 
have been for many centuries never-ending topics of controversy for 
hosts of commentators. A useful and generally accepted division, 
however, is that into practical, constructive, and theoretical subjects. 
Practical science may be taken as treating of man and human action, 
and includes the Ethics and Politics. Constructive science deals with 



THE ORGANON—ITS CONSTITUENT PARTS. 723 

art and its laws, as studied in his Poetics ; and the theoretical science 
has to do with physics, mathematics, and theology, or metaphysics. 
It is to be remembered, however, that these divisions are more of the 
nature of a mnemonic device than a representation of any distinction 
which Aristotle anywhere sets down, but, accepting them with this 
understanding, we find the main boundary-lines are those between 
theoretical and practical science. 

Underlying the whole course of studies which he pursued and in 
great measure established on a solid footing, was the dialectic method, 
by which alone any results could be obtained. All of this subject we 
include under the head of Logic, a name which it did not receive until 
after the time of Aristotle, but to his early editors it was known as the 
Organon, or instrument, a title that obviously suggested to Bacon his 
Novum Organon. To the Organon belong six separate treatises, the 
Categories, On Interpretation, The First Series of Analytics, The Sec- 
ond Series of Analytics, Topics, and Fallacies. The genuineness of 
the first two of these is doubted by some, although, even if these 
skeptics are right, it is yet true that the doctrines which they teach 
are distinctly Aristotelian, and during the Middle Ages they were 
studied more busily than any of his works. These categories were 
a test of the various predicaments possible in any imaginable propo- 
sition ; they were : First, Essence, or substance, — as, man, horse. Sec- 
ond, How much, or quantity, — as, two or three cubits long. Third, 
What manner of, or quality, — as, white, black, learned. Fourth, To 
something, or relation, — as, double, half, greater, or smaller. Fifth, 
Where, — as, in Athens. Sixth, When, — as, last week, to-morrow. Sev- 
enth, In what position, — as, standing, or sitting. Eighth, Having, — as, 
to be shod or armed. Ninth, Activity, — as, burning or cutting. Tenth, 
Passivity, — as, being cut or being burned. As an ingenious writer has 
pointed out, this curious catalogue of the possibilities of human 
thought are but general expressions of all the simple forms of inter- 
rogation existing in the Greek language ; but, great as was the atten- 
tion paid to the Categories in the Middle Ages, Aristotle appears not 
to have set any great store by them. The essay On Interpretation 
is far more important ; and although now much it says is become 
familiar and trite, at the time, the student of Plato may be sure, it 
must have prepared the way for clearness of thought and statement. 
The subject that he treats here is the proposition, regarded as to its 
truth or falsity, and the early attempt to state what a proposition is 
has great importance in the history of thought. In Rhetoric, as Aris- 
totle said, he had been preceded by many, but Logic he practically 
worked out for himself. In the Topics he treated the science of dis- 
putation, or Dialectics, so well known to the Athenians, wherein he 



7 2 4 ARISTOTLE. 

endeavored to establish such general principles as would enable a 
pupil to discover and to judge reasons for and against any subject of 
discussion. Naturally the consideration of this matter brought him 
to the examination of the theory of the syllogism, which he expressly 
states that he was the first to formulate. To this work his Analytics 
was devoted, the first dealing with demonstration, the second with 
dialectic and sophistic. The work on Fallacies, or Sophistic Refuta- 
tion, took up a subject that distinctly called for the attention of a 
logical thinker. The indulgence which Aristotle asked for the inevi- 
table crudity of his work is not always granted him by those who for- 
get how very hard are just those first steps in the foundation of a 
science. 

In his Metaphysics, Aristotle in the first place gave a historical 
sketch of the work of his predecessors, to which we are indebted for 
almost all that we know of their efforts in this direction, and what he 
mentioned of their theories he criticised freely, in order to build up 
on the ruins of their work the theory which he had formed for himself. 
He has been accused of harshness and misrepresentation in this 
part of his metaphysical writings; if the accusation is accurate, it 
shows, for one thing, that he regarded the old systems as dangerous 
foes, for one is impartial only when all peril has disappeared. Against 
Plato's notion of ideas Aristotle spoke with considerable warmth, 
maintaining against it his own theory that the idea is nothing but the 
form in which the phenomenon or the material comes into existence, 
and that it does this through a third principle, namely, movement. In 
his view, the form is the actual thing, and matter more the potential 
thing, that may become this or that, but not necessarily any single 
object. Thus a piece of wood is only potentially, say, the leg of a 
table, only when it has assumed that form does it become a sensible, 
concrete object. Matter has a natural disposition for acquiring form, 
and form is the actual condition as distinguished from the potential 
condition of matter. Only through movement can these concrete ob- 
jects attain existence. This movement is an eternal, unbroken process, 
which is inconceivable without a beginning, and without an unmoved 
thing which is the source of all movement. There are then three 
divisions, that which is only moved and does not move — matter ; that 
which moves and is moved — nature ; and that which moves and is not 
moved — God. This God, the cause of all movement, must be materia], 
indivisible, and unbounded by space, without motion, change, or 
passion ; it must be actual reality, pure energy. This pure activity 
can be found only in pure thought ; God is then absolute thought, 
and, so far as he is this, is the real and living source of all life. 
But this thought can be directed only upon what is highest and 



SCIENTIFIC THEORIES— COSMOGONY. 12$ 

best, that is, upon himself ; hence, God is both thinking and the thing 
thought. 

In Physics Aristotle worked hard and long ; what he did has been 
absurdly praised and violently ridiculed, two wrongs that counter- 
balance each other, Many — indeed, most — of his explanations of facts 
that have since been set in a proper light by science may not bear 
serious consideration, but what is more important is his attitude 
before questions then insoluble. All the forces of nature, he main- 
tained, were forms of movement, which caused all changes and all 
development and decay. The differences between the elementary 
bodies were original, their number was four, and they were thus com- 
posed : warmth and dryness produced fire ; warmth and moisture, 
air ; cold and moisture, water ; cold and dryness, earth. These ele- 
mentary substances are found united in all compound bodies, and 
the changes among them produce all development and decay. Out- 
side of these things lies the ether with a circular movement ; this 
ether is an eternal, unchangeable substance, far above all the con- 
flict of material objects. Its relation to the elements, and of the ele- 
ments to one another, constitutes the nature of the universe. The 
earth appeared to him to be a globe-shaped body, about which other 
globe-shaped bodies moved in concentric circles, arranged in layers, 
one beyond the other. The limit of this universe was heaven, the 
region of divine things, where is neither space nor time. In the 
better known universe everything was arranged by divine foresight, 
for specific benefit to men ; outside of this is the heaven of the gods, 
unaffected by our laws as by our misdeeds. Let us leave these fan- 
tastic guesses to consider Aristotle's statements about the earth. He 
wrote on natural history, meteorology, mechanics, on the soul, carry- 
ing his encyclopaedic studies far and into many regions. What is 
worthy of attention is not his power of observation, but rather his 
accumulation of facts. In this respect he showed that he was at 
least moving toward, if not in, the right path. Some of his remarks 
are full of wisdom ; thus he says, speaking of the parthogenesis of bees: 
" There are not facts enough to warrant a conclusion, and more de- 
pendence must be placed on facts than on reasonings, which must 
agree with facts," but these golden words, which are the very core of 
science, were not always the inspiration of his thought. Aristotle 
was after all a human being, and habit, authority, and prejudice 
combined to lead him astray. Often he saw the truth, but more often 
he wandered away from it ; like others, he failed to practice what he 
was competent to preach. 

The list of his errors that the most indifferent observation might 
have corrected is very long, and doubtless came from a hasty accumu- 



726 ARISTOTLE. 

lation of alleged facts from various sources rather than from direct 
study. Apparently he regarded the work of science as already com- 
pleted, and consequently all the work of the ancients that has formed 
the basis of modern science was the work of later men who had 
learned to doubt the principles on which he rested with such compla- 
cency. The coherence and the absoluteness of his theories gave them 
force in the Middle Ages, but a real advance has been made only when 
his system has fallen into neglect. No part of it, however, was longer- 
lived than his teleological notions, which permeated modern thought 
with their apparent proof that everything in the universe was created 
for the ends of practical utility. This notion of a cause still lies deep 
in men's minds, dimming and modifying direct study by imposing a 
theory with which their investigations must comply. A great deal of 
thinking has been saved for men by falling back on Plato's ideals and 
Aristotle's arguments from design. 

The practical philosophy, as it is called, of Aristotle, consists of his 
treatises on Ethics and on Politics; and that on Rhetoric may also be 
included in this list, for in his discussion of this subject he treats 
many questions of ethics that one is not accustomed to find in such 
books. They were not common in Aristotle's time ; the ordinary 
book of rhetoric of his day was a practical manual of directions, like 
its modern representative, while Aristotle's is a serious discussion of 
the principles of human nature as they are affected by oratory. The 
sources of persuasion he stated to be, first, the personal character 
which the speaker is able to exhibit or assume; second, the condition 
of mind into which he can bring his audience ; and, third, the argu- 
ments, real or apparent, which he can bring forward. He distin- 
guishes, too, the different kinds of oratory, and discusses the various 
passions to which the speaker may appeal. These divisions of his 
work are followed by sundry technical rules concerning the art of the 
rhetorician. These are curious and interesting enough, but obviously 
the most important part of the book is that in which the more gen- 
eral part of the subject comes under discussion. A similar discussion 
occupies the greater part of the treatise on Ethics, the Nichomachaean 
Ethics, as it is called, after Nichomachus, the son of Aristotle, who 
may have edited it and so have connected his name with the work. 
In this book Aristotle, who defines happiness as the ultimate and 
highest purpose of all action, tries to ascertain by what means it may 
be attained. It is, he says, the energy of life existing for its own 
sake, according to virtue which exists by and for itself. Virtue again 
is of two sorts, intellectual and moral ; the moral virtues being capable 
of being acquired by practice. Training in right-doing will help to 
form habits of right-doing. The man who practises abstinence will 



THE POLITICS— THEORY OF GOVERNMENT. 7 2 7 

help to form the habit of abstinence, a statement that is full of physio- 
logical as well as moral truth. Furthermore, virtue is a matter that 
can not be defined with a fullness that shall cover all cases ; it is a 
course that lies between two extremes, as prudent economy, for ex- 
ample, has to steer its way between extravagance and niggardliness, 
and to detect the golden mean requires extreme tact and care. Aris- 
totle draws many vivid pictures of the wise application of the virtues, 
in which he shows his own full comprehension of the honorable char- 
acteristics of a worthy man, especially in what he says about friend- 
ship. Closely connected with the Ethics is his Politics, in which he 
discusses the happiness of whole peoples and not of individuals. He 
discusses the various civic relations of people and the different forms 
of government, and then takes up the consideration of what state 
would be the one best suited for human beings, or, in other words, 
what mode of life is the most desirable ? Among the conditions he 
gives prominence to the education of the young in such a way that 
the harmonious cultivation of all physical and mental powers shall 
establish the virtue which was inculcated in his Ethics. 

The two books are full of the shrewdest judgments of human nature, 
and acute criticisms, — the Politics especially, — of Greek civic life. At 
times he speaks like a modern man, that is to say, with scientific in- 
sight, although his range of vision is limited to a narrow field by the 
fact that the Greeks had not attained a conception of the greatness 
of a nation as compared with the more limited importance of a single 
city. Even Plato started from the conditions of Hellenic civilization 
when he constructed his theoretic state, and we may be prepared to 
find in Aristotle acceptance of facts as they were. A few lines from 
the eighth chapter of the eighth book of the Politics will illustrate his 
clearness and wisdom : 

" In any polity in which a successful fusion of various elements has been 
achieved, we ought above everything to be on our guard against illegality, 
and especially to take precautions against insignificant steps in this direc- 
tion. For illegality is imperceptibly admitted into States and brings them 
to ruin, as small expenses frequently incurred are the ruin of properties. 
The reason why the delusive process is not observed is that it does not take 
place all at once ; for the judgment is deluded by petty acts of illegality, 
according to the sophistical argument that if every part is small, so is the 
whole. But although there is one sense in which this is true, there is an- 
other in which it is false. The truth is that the whole or the sum total is 
not small, but is only composed of small parts. 

We must be on our guard then in the first place against this beginning 
of revolution, and secondly we must put no trust in the measures concocted 
as artifices to impose upon the masses, as they are proved by experience to 
be failures." 

But brief extracts can not do justice to a treatise that depends for 



7 28 ARISTOTLE. 

its value on a large number of closely connected links. It is not in 
single sentences that Aristotle's merit is most conspicuous, but rather 
the grasp that he gets of his subject, and the coherence of this treat- 
ment, that are admirable. 

The examination of these two treatises is not a simple matter. 
Aristotle's style is without the grace and poetic fancy to be found in 
Plato, who continually delights us so that in yielding to his charm we 
forget the obstacles about which he leads us. To be sure, Aristotle 
often attracts us by a shrewd and homely wit, but the value of this is 
far less than that of Plato's impassioned eloquence ; it is indeed the 
customary quality of those safer guides who, if it may be said with- 
out opprobrium, creep rather than fly. Then, too, it presents other 
difficulties. He moves backwards and forwards in confusing uncer- 
tainty ; at times he knots the thread of his argument so that we 
can not readily make out in which direction he is tending ; his digres- 
sions are many and vexatious ; he repeats himself unnecessarily when 
his point is already clear, and again omits needed explanation — like a 
bad annotator — when his meaning is obscure. And when these difficul- 
ties are taken into account, there remains to be considered the quality 
of his work, his continual effort to maintain an equable position 
between extravagance and a sordid precision. He refuses to abandon 
the solid ground of facts ; he shuns an appeal to the ideal ; he seeks 
the safe and sure middle-ground ; he dreads illusions. Thus, while he 
winds up one great era by the accumulation of its vast experience, he 
opens another in which the force of law is felt as something universal. 
The boundless ardor of the Greeks is transmuted into a quality that 
can flourish outside of Greece ; his strong monotheism, his monarchical 
tastes, his cold morality, his inclination towards a distinct mate- 
rialism, all mark a great change. It may well have seemed that 
inspiration had expired, and that all that was left for men was the 
capacity for taking pains. 

This statement makes clear the distinction, that is continually forced 
upon the reader, between Plato and Aristotle, and in the work of the 
later writer we find frequent criticism of his master. This is espe- 
cially true of the Politics, when his aim is not, like that of Plato, the 
formation of an ideal state, but the definition of the best system that 
can be devised. The subject was a burning one, and they, although 
the greatest, were not the only men who were discussing it. We 
know Xenophon's contributions to the question, and history tells us 
what solution was given to the need that the narrow boundaries of 
Hellas should be broken and that the civilized world should receive 
its teachings, and in Aristotle we may read a most important docu- 
ment regarding the theory. In his Politics he sets down the natural 



THE HAPPINESS OF STATES. 7 2 9 

rights of the state, resting on the double basis of the family and the 
slave. He sharply criticises Plato's communism in wives and prop- 
erty, and proceeds to discuss the various forms of government. 
These he enumerates in the following order of merit: I, monarchy, 
2, aristocracy, 3, constitutional republic, 4, democracy, 5, oligarchy, 
6, tyranny ; deciding, however, that, human nature being what it is, a 
constitutional republic is the form to be preferred. The best state is 
that which grants the best lives to its inhabitants, and what this is, 
and how it is to be attained, he defines by a most practical exposition 
of his notions concerning the aims and methods of education ; here 
as everywhere we see him legislating, not for a Utopia, but for the 
world that he saw about him, and we observe his continual tendency 
to keep near the earth, to examine things as they are and not as 
they might be. The peril of this habit of mind we may detect in his 
contempt for the happier guesses of the Ionic philosophers ; its value, 
in his continual shrewd wisdom. After all, jesting Pilate's question, 
" What is Truth ? " is not yet answered. 

In the Ethics we ma}' see more vivid instances of his safe medio- 
crity, if this word may be accepted without any evil flavor, or, if the 
phrase is preferred, of his hard-headedness. The first part of the dis- 
cussion is not devoid of a certain obscurity, but the upshot of his 
argumentation is that the happiness which is the chief end of life 
must rest on human nature, or the facts of life, and not be a remote 
ideal. 

It is not the lofty preaching of a seer or an enthusiastic instructor 
that we find in his cooler pages, but a philosopher's exposition of the 
virtues that reminds us of the legislator's discussion of right and 
wrong. Happiness, according to him, is not an exalted state, but the 
result of the equilibrium between the intellect and the animal elements 
of human nature. It is like Aristotle himself in its avoidance of 
extremes ; it is this harmonious wisdom, the mean, at which he ever 
aims, that he sets before the world. The extracts given below will 
make clear what in comparison with Plato's fervent appeals sounds like 
a tepid inculcation of discreet conduct. Yet there is room for both; 
the world has never been overcrowded by discretion. His way of 
commending it by continual examination of possible conditions is 
full of the seeds of future casuistry, and the nature of his answers 
corresponds closely with the common sense of his Politics and with the 
general yearning of his fellow-countrymen for a precise statement of 
formal law. Just as he recommended a state that admitted to citizen- 
ship only men who enjoyed an honorable leisure, so here he presup- 
posed a cool wisdom, guiding and controlling every action ; he thus 
contributed to the establishment of an aristocracy of the intelligent, 



73° ARISTOTLE. 

and made himself a safe master for men who accepted authority and 
discipline. A Platonist would make a bad slave, — at any moment he 
might perceive the divine vision, and then obedience would fall from 
him ; but an Aristotelian would never know such mutiny ; active en- 
thusiasm would be, to his mind, a mere outbreak of ignorance, leading 
only to confusion. And between these two tendencies the world is 
ever moving ; to condemn either is as unwise as it is ineffectual, and 
has for its main result only information about the man who sees 
fit to blame or praise. 

Every fault has been found in Aristotle as well as every virtue, but 
his historical importance has never been diminished ; this was due, in 
some measure, to his packing up the results of Greek thought into 
portable manuals for other people. He prepared condensed intellectual 
nutriment for foreign races; and when Greece was almost as wholly for- 
gotten as Carthage or the Etruscan civilization, Aristotle kept the 
sacred fire burning, even if dimly, against its more brilliant rekindling 
in the Renaissance. 

There remains to be considered his treatise on Poetics, a book which, 
as has been said, has exercised a long-lived and important influence 
on later literature. That it has had this influence is natural enough. 
Men prefer to learn their ethics and politics in the costly school of 
experience. Theories on these subjects have as little seeming practi- 
cal importance for most of us as do investigations in the higher math- 
ematics, but instruction in literature is always welcome, and the more 
authoritatively it is uttered, the more willingly is it obeyed. Certainly 
Aristotle's Poetics has never lacked admirers and disciples ; until very 
recently it was the corner-stone on which, one might say, a good part 
of modern literature was built. So long as literature grew up under 
fear of what had been done by Greece and Rome, and it was thought 
that the only way of writing an epic poem was by imitating the epics 
of the ancients, and that no other tragedies than theirs were at all 
worthy of consideration, critics and writers combined in enforcing the 
rules of Aristotle, whose authority in literature naturally grew greater 
from the reverence his name still inspired. Naturally enough, they 
regarded Romans and Greeks as together composing the ancients, 
and remained contented with reading Seneca's plays and Aristotle's 
Poetics, which last formed the basis of Horace's rules, without 
troubling themselves to examine the great Greek tragedies. The 
famous three unities which so long held control over the classic 
tragedies of Europe rested on the words of Aristotle, and on what 
it was supposed he would have said if he had not deemed the state- 
ment superfluous. The unity of time seemed secure in obedience to 
his assertion that tragedy is limited by one period of the sun, with 



LITERARY PRECEPTS. 73 1 

but little variation permissible. The question to be sure, arose 
whether this meant twelve or twenty-four hours, but the incon- 
venience of either limit was accepted when authority was triumph- 
ant. The unity of action none questioned ; that of place was the one 
that rested on what Aristotle would have said if he had thought it 
worth while. Of the four divisions of poetry mentioned by him, the 
epic, tragic, comic, and dithyrambic, it is only the second that is 
spoken of at any considerable length. And while it is not wise to 
spend time in discussing what might have happened, we may yet find 
some consolation for our loss in the thought of how much heavier 
would have been the load under which pseudo-classical literature stag- 
gered, if more direct precepts of Aristotle had come down to us. A 
fuller collection of rules would have meant a longer pupilage and a 
harder struggle before men dared to write without an eye on their 
Greek or Roman masters. As it was, this fragmentary treatise, which 
after all may not have been written by Aristotle, has been the subject 
of never-ending controversy. One phrase that it contains — a defini- 
tion of the function of tragedy — has received from commentators as 
much attention as if it dealt with an uncertain point in theology. 

" Tragedy," Aristotle says, " is an imitation of a worthy or illustrious and 
perfect action, possessing magnitude, in pleasing language, using separately 
the several species of imitation in its parts, by men acting, and not through 
narration, through pity and fear effecting a purification from such like 
passions." 

It is the last words that have proved a stumbling-block that has 
called for nearly a hundred explanations. Possibly, as some have sug- 
gested, the real meaning is not so remote as others have thought, and 
Aristotle merely referred to the relief from the weight of one's own 
cares that one feels after seeing some intense tragedy represented on 
the stage. 

In general, however, his remarks are simpler, and they are for the 
most part of a sort that commend themselves to the reader. The 
aim of tragedy he takes to be the moral instruction or elevation of the 
spectator, thus differing from those who maintain that artistic excel- 
lence should be the poet's sole aim, but also differing from those who 
maintain that literature should be only didactic. Perhaps, as we have 
said before, the truth lies between the exaggeration of the two ex- 
tremes, and every picture of life, like all experience, has unavoidably 
an instructive quality. 



73 2 ARISTOTLE. 



V. 



No one will doubt that the legislator should direct his attention above all 
to the education of youth, or that the neglect of education does harm to 
states. The citizen should be moulded to suit the form of government 
under which he lives. For each government has a peculiar character which 
originally formed and which continues to preserve it. The character of 
democracy creates democracy, and the character of oligarchy creates oli- 
garchy ; and always the better the character, the better the government. 
Now for the exercise of any faculty or art a previous training and habituation 
are required ; clearly, therefore, for the practice of virtue. And since the 
whole city has one end it is manifest that education should be one and the 
same for all, and that it should be public, and not private, — not as at present, 
when every one looks after his own children separately, and gives them 
separate instruction of the sort which he thinks best ; the training in things 
which are of common interest should be the same for all. Neither must we 
suppose that any one of the citizens belongs to himself, for they all belong 
to the state, and are each of them a part of the state, and the care of each 
part is inseparable from the care of the whole. In this particular the Lace- 
daemonians are to be praised, for they take the greatest pains about their 
children, and make education the business of the state. 

That education should be regulated by law and should be an affair of state 
is not to be denied; but what should be the character of this public education, 
and how young persons should be educated, are questions which remain to 
be considered. For mankind are by no means agreed about the things to 
be taught, whether we look to virtue or the best life. Neither is it clear 
whether education is more concerned with intellectual or with moral virtue. 
The existing practice is perplexing ; no one knows on what principle we 
should proceed — should the useful in life, or should virtue, or should the 
higher knowledge, be the aim of our training ; all three opinions have been 
entertained. Again, about the means there is no agreement ; for different 
persons, starting with different ideas about the nature of virtue, naturally 
disagree about the practice of it. There can be no doubt that children 
should be taught those useful things which are really necessary, but not all 
things ; for occupations are divided into liberal and illiberal ; and to young 
children should be imparted only such kinds of knowledge as will be useful 
to them without vulgarizing them. And any occupation, art, or science, 
which makes the body or soul or mind of the freeman less fit for the practice 
or exercise of virtue, is vulgar ; wherefore we call those arts vulgar which 
tend to deform the body, and likewise all paid employments, for they absorb 
and degrade the mind. There are also some liberal arts quite proper for a 
freeman to acquire, but only in a certain degree, and if he attend to them 
too closely, in order to attain perfection in them, the same evil effects will 
follow. The object also which a man sets before him makes a great 
difference ; if he does or learns anything for his own sake or for the 
sake of his friends, or with a view to excellence, the action will not appear 
illiberal ; but if done for the sake of others, the very same action will be 
thought menial and servile. The received subjects of instruction, as I 
have already remarked, are partly of a liberal and partly of an illiberal 
character. The customary branches of education are in number four ; they 
are — (i) reading and writing, (2) gymnastic exercises, (3) music, to which is 



734 ARISTOTLE. 

sometimes added (4) drawing. Of these reading and writing and drawing 
are regarded as useful for the purpose's of life in a variety of ways, and 
gymnastic exercises are thought to infuse courage. Concerning music a 
doubt may be raised ; in our own day most men cultivate it for the sake of 
pleasure, but originally it was included in education because nature herself, 
as has often been said, requires that we should be able, not only to work 
well, but to use leisure well ; for, as I must repeat once and again, the first 
principle of all action is leisure. Both are required, but leisure is better 
than occupation ; and therefore the question must be asked in good earnest, 
what ought we to do when at leisure ? Clearly we ought not to be amusing 
ourselves, for then amusement would be the end of life. But if this is incon- 
ceivable, and yet amid serious occupations amusement is needed more than 
at other times (for he who is hard at work has need of relaxation, and 
amusement gives relaxation, whereas occupation is always accompanied with 
exertion and effort), at suitable times we should introduce amusements, and 
they should be our medicines ; for the emotion which they create in the soul 
is a relaxation, and from the pleasure we obtain rest. Leisure of itself gives 
pleasure and happiness and enjoyment of life, which are experienced, not by 
the busy man, but by those who have leisure. For he who is occupied has 
in view some end which he has not attained ; but happiness is an end which 
all men deem to be accompanied with pleasure and not with pain. This 
pleasure, however, is regarded differently by different persons, and varies 
according to the habit of individuals ; the pleasure of the best man is the 
best, and springs from the noblest sources. It is clear then that there are 
branches of learning and education which we must study with a view to 
enjoyment of leisure, and these are to be valued for their own sake ; whereas 
those kinds of knowledge which are useful in business are to be deemed 
necessary and exist for the sake of other things. And therefore our fathers 
admitted music into education, not on the ground either of its necessity or 
utility, for it is not necessary, nor indeed useful in the same manner as 
reading and writing, which are useful in money-making, in the management 
of a household, in the acquisition of knowledge and in political life, nor like 
drawing, useful for a more correct judgment of the works of artists, nor 
again like gymnastic, which gives health and strength ; for neither of these 
is to be gained from music. There remains, then, the use of music for intel- 
lectual enjoyment in leisure ; which appears to have been the reason of its 
introduction; this being one of the ways in which it is thought that a freeman 
should pass his leisure ; as Homer says — 

' How good it is to invite men to the pleasant feast '; 

and afterwards he speaks of others whom he describes as inviting 

' The bard who would delight them all.' 

And in another place Odysseus says there is no better way of passing life 
than when ' men's hearts are merry, and the banqueters in the hall, sitting in 
order, hear the voice of the minstrel.' 

It is evident, then, that there is a sort of education in which parents should 
train their sons, not as being useful or necessary, but because it is liberal or 
noble. Whether this is of one kind only, or of more than one, and if so, 
what they are, and how they are to be imparted, must hereafter be deter- 
mined. Thus much we are now in a position to say that the ancients witness 
to us ; for their opinion may be gathered from the fact that music is one of 
the received and traditional branches of education. Further, it is clear that 



THE N I CHOM ACHAEAN ETHICS. 735 

children should be instructed in some useful things, — for example, in reading 
and writing, — not only for their usefulness, but also because many other sorts 
of knowledge are acquired through them. With a like view they may be taught 
drawing, not to prevent their making mistakes in their own purchases, or in 
order that they may not be imposed upon in the buying or selling of articles, 
but rather because it makes them judges of the beauty of the human form. 
To be always seeking after the useful does not become free and exalted souls. 
Now it is clear that in education habit must go before reason, and the body 
before the mind ; and therefore boys should be handed over to the trainer, 
who creates in them the proper habit of body, and to the wrestling-master, 
who teaches them their exercises. 

EXTRACT FROM THE NICHOMACH^EAN ETHICS. 

We have next to speak of equity and of that which is equitable, and to 
inquire how equity is related to justice, and that which is equitable to that 
which is just. For, on consideration, they do not seem to be absolutely 
identical, nor yet generically different. 

At one time we praise that which is equitable and the equitable man, and 
even use the word metaphorically as a term of praise synonymous with good, 
showing that we consider that the more equitable a thing is the better it is. 
At another time we reflect and find it strange that what is equitable should 
be praiseworthy, if it be different from what is just ; for, we argue, if it be 
something else, either what is just is not good, or what is equitable is not 
good ; if both be good, they are the same. 

These are the reflections which give rise to the difficulty about what is 
equitable. Now, in a way, they are all correct and not incompatible with 
one another ; for that which is equitable, though it is better than that which 
is just (in one sense of the word), is itself just (in another sense), and is not 
better than what is just in the sense of being something generically distinct 
from it. What is just, then, and what is equitable are generically the same, 
and both are good, though what is equitable is better. 

But what obscures the matter is that though what is equitable is just, it is 
not identical with, but is a correction of, that which is just according to law. 

The reason of this is that every law is laid down in general terms, while 
there are matters about which it is impossible to speak correctly in general 
terms. Where, then, it is necessary to speak in general terms, but impossible 
to do so correctly, the legislator lays down that which holds good for the 
majority of cases, being quite aware that it does not hold good for all. 

The law, indeed, is none the less correctly laid down because of this 
defect ; for the defect lies not in the law, nor in the lawgiver, but in the 
nature of the subject-matter, being necessarily involved in the very con- 
ditions of human action. When, therefore, the law lays down a general rule, 
but a particular case occurs which is an exception to this rule, it is right, 
where the legislator fails and is in error through speaking without qualifica- 
tion, to make good this deficiency, just as the lawgiver himself would do if 
he were present, and as he would have provided in the law itself if the case 
had occurred to him. What is equitable, then, is just, and better than what 
is just in one sense of the word — not better than what is absolutely just, but 
better than that which fails through its lack of qualification. And the essence 
of what is equitable is that it is an amendment of the law in those points 
where it fails through the generality of its language. 

The reason why the law does not cover all cases is that there are matters 



73 6 ARISTOTLE. 

about which it is impossible to lay down a law, so that they require a special 
decree. For that which is variable needs a variable rule, like the leaden 
rule employed in the Lesbian style of masonry ; as the leaden rule has no 
fixed shape, but adapts itself to the outline of each stone, so is the decree 
adapted to the occasion. 

We have ascertained, then, what the equitable course is, and have found 
that it is just, and also better than what is just in a certain sense of the 
word. And after this it is easy to see what the equitable man is : he who is 
apt to choose such a course and to follow it, who does not insist on his rights 
to the damage of others, but is ready to take less than his due, even when 
he has the law to back him, is called an equitable man ; and this type of 
character is called equitableness, being a sort of justice, and not a different 
kind of character. 

Is it in prosperity or adversity that we most need friends ? For under 
both circumstances we have recourse to them : in misfortune we need help, 
in prosperity we need people to live with and to do good to ; for we wish to 
do good. In adversity, it may be answered, the need is more pressing ; we 
then require useful friends ; but friendship is a nobler thing in prosperity ; 
we then seek out good men for friends; for it is more desirable to do good to 
and live with such people. The mere presence of friends is sweet, even in 
misfortune; for our grief is lightened when our friends share it. And so it 
might be asked whether they literally take a share of it as of a weight, or 
whether it is not so, but rather that their presence, which is sweet, and the 
consciousness of their sympathy, make our grief less. But whether this or 
something else be the cause of the relief, we need not further inquire ; the 
fact is evidently as we said. But their presence seems to be complex in its 
effects. On the one hand, the mere sight of friends is pleasant, especially 
when we are in adversity, and contributes something to assuage our grief ; 
for a friend can do much to comfort us both by sight and speech, if he has 
tact : he knows our character, and what pleases and what pains us. But, 
on the other hand, to see another grieving over our misfortunes is a painful 
thing ; for every one dislikes to be the cause of sorrow to his friends. For 
this reason, he who is of a manly nature takes care not to impart his grief 
to his friends, shrinking from the pain that it would give them, unless this is 
quite outweighed by the relief it would give him ; and generally he does not 
allow others to lament with him, as he is not given to lamentations himself ; 
but weak women and effeminate men delight in those who lament with them, 
and love them as friends and sympathizers. (But evidently we ought in all 
circumstances to take the better man for our model.) 

In prosperity, again, the presence of friends not only makes the time pass 
pleasantly, but also brings the consciousness that our friends are pleased at 
our good fortune. And for this reason it would seem that we should be 
eager to invite our friends to share our prosperity, for it is noble to be ready 
to confer benefits, — but slow to summon them to us in adversity, for we 
ought to be loth to give others a share of our evil things : whence comes 
the saying, " That I am in sorrow is sorrow enough." But we should be 
least unwilling to call them in when they will be likely to relieve us much 
without being greatly troubled themselves. 

But, on the other hand, when our friends are in trouble, we should, I 
think, go to them unsummoned and readily (for it is a friend's office to serve 
his friend, and especially when he is in need and does not claim assistance, 
for then it is nobler and pleasanter to both) : when they are in prosperity, 



THE PERIPATETIC SCHOOL. 737 

we should go readily to help them (for this is one of the uses of a friend), 
but not so readily to share their good things ; for it is not a noble thing to 
be very ready to receive a benefit. But we may add that we ought to be 
careful that our refusal shall not seem ungracious, as sometimes happens. 

The presence of friends, then, in conclusion, is manifestly desirable on all 
occasions. 

VI. 

After the death of its founder, the Peripatetic school continued its 
existence, first under the charge of Aristotle's favorite disciple, Theo- 
phrastus of Lesbos. This new leader was a busy student whose 
writings covered a long list of subjects, the most important being 
a continuation of Aristotle's work in natural history, especially in 
botany and geology. But we have little of what he wrote : his 
Characters, which, however, have survived, are amplifications of the 
ethical studies which are to be found in Aristotle, and throw consid- 
erable light on the thought of the time, with their delicate study of 
the dispositions of various sorts of men. This little book of Charac- 
ters, though its genuineness has been doubted, and it bears no rela- 
tion to formal philosophy, is of interest as showing how far the general 
attention of the public was turned to the minutiae of daily life, to the 
study of the individual — a movement that is very distinct in the more 
solemn works of literature, and naturally to be expected here. The 
acuteness that the book shows is exactly that of a time when obser- 
vation is busy with apparent trifles, and the most interesting object 
of study is the minor qualities of human nature. And it is these 
little details — each one of which, taken by itself, is petty — that sur- 
vive changes of religion, of politics, and of philosophy; whatever else 
may alter, the flatterer never forgets his cunning, nor does his victim 
ever fail to know the smile of delight that his wiles infallibly pro- 
duce. Stupidity, superstition, vainglory, have the same immortality; 
the weaknesses of mankind belong to all times and all nations, like 
illness or old age, and their delineation records our wide relationship. 
He seems to have been the first to lead the philosophy of Aristotle 
in the sensualistic direction, which it soon followed. He was the 
head of the school until 286 B.C. Heracleides of Pontus and Aris- 
toxenus of Tarentum were among his fellow-pupils. The latter was 
a famous musician, of whose philosophy we know only that he re- 
garded the soul as the harmony of the body, therein differing from 
his master. Most of the other Peripatetics gave their main atten- 
tion to physical science ; thus, Dicsearchus tried to prove that the 
soul was mortal, resting his belief on the theory that it was merely 
the harmony of corporeal elements and so ceasing with them. The 
loss of his other writings — especially one on the geography, history, 



738 



ARISTOTLE. 



and the moral and religious state of Greece — is much to be lamented. 
Straton also pursued physical problems, abandoning the study of 

ethics and avowing purely 
materialistic doctrines. The 
successors of these men occu- 
pied themselves with editing, 
repeating, and discussing the 
writings of Aristotle. 

Along with the later fol- 
lowers of Plato and the Peri- 
patetics there flourished the 
Epicureans, the Stoics, and 
the Skeptics. The influence 
of all of these, however, was 
more fully felt in Rome than 
in Greece, and their principles 
may be more justly discussed 
later. Now it will be suffi- 
cient to say that Zeno, the 
founder of the Stoics, was 
born on the island of Cy- 
prus, though the date of his 
birth is unknown. He flour- 
ished about 300 B.C. Epicu- 
rus, the founder of the Epicu- 
rean school, was born in the 
island of Samos, 342 B.C., and 
was thus a contemporary of 
Zeno. He taught in Athens, 
and the gardens where he gave 
his lessons became the rival 
of the porch where Zeno taught 
his philosophy. While the 
Stoics derived a good part of 
their theories from the Cynics, 
the Epicureans were also a 
later outgrowth of the Cyre- 
naic school. The name of 
Epicurus acquired an evil 
fame as a teacher of rank 
luxury, but only by misrepresentation, for his philosophy was a 
serious pursuit of truth. The main difference between the two 
sects was between two different ways of regarding the universe — 




EPICURUS. 



PLATONIC AND ARISTOTELIAN PHILOSOPHY. • 739 

the difference between spiritualism and materialism. Pyrrho, the 
founder of the Skeptics, also flourished about 300 B.C. ; he appears 
to have carried on the line of thought which marked the Sophists, 
and to have maintained the impossibility of any real knowledge. In 
these five general paths philosophy moved until the extinction of 
the intellectual life of the Greeks. 

The decay began with the death of Aristotle, and he and Plato 
still survive as the two greatest philosophers of Greece, as the men 
who drew the lines on which posterity was to move. All that emotion, 
eloquence, poetry can do for the thought of men is what Plato has 
represented as no other writer has ever done, while Aristotle stands for 
the cooler, unimpassioned work of science. Every one, said Friederich 
Schlegel, is either a Platonist or an Aristotelian, and although the ac- 
curacy of the statement is often denied, and great pains are taken to 
show that Aristotle's science is no science, it yet remains true that 
the two men mark the two attitudes in which the universe may be 
regarded. Here, as in almost every department of intellectual exer- 
cise, the Greeks left the rest of the world to follow them. 

That after the work of these two illustrious leaders what may be 
called constructive philosophy should have languished in Greece, is 
not surprising when we consider the political history of that country. 
The hope of material power under the new conditions faded away, 
and the resignation to the change expressed itself by modifying the 
philosophic thought into something like religious enthusiasms, for 
such were the essential qualities of these new schools. In Stoicism, 
for instance, we find a very fervent feeling of devotion, and a most 
marked insistence upon the necessity of morality. The Epicureans, 
too, in spite of their bad name, and the convenience of an epithet 
often outweighs its justice, tempered the austerity of the Stoics by 
enlarging the field of morality, and by including cultivation within the 
desirable aims of men. With the suppression of an outlet in political 
life, men's energies were turned to the study of individuals, and thus 
the sage prepared himself to meet the troubles of life as best he 
could, and lost the civic sense of the old times to become a citizen of 
the whole world. Their full development will be seen, however, when 
we come to study the Romans. Yet here it is curious to notice how 
much the philosophy of the Epicureans resembled some of the most 
important modern theories, and while it thus held out one hand to 
the future, its connection with the early teachings of Democritus is 
equally close. The atomic theories of that wonderful man were 
brought forward again with new vigor, — to be sure, as a hypothesis 
incapable of verification, yet with a tendency towards probability that 
was of vast influence upon many leaders of thought. And in the ethi- 



740 



ARISTOTLE. 



cal side of his lessons there was an equal force, not the force of fanati- 
cism, but that of quiet conviction, as we see it in the statement that 
" it is impossible to live pleasantly without living wisely, and well, 
and justly; and it is impossible to live wisely, and well, and justly, 
without living pleasantly." 

Curiously enough, the lessons of utilitarianism underlie the princi- 
ples of Epicureanism, the bad name of which only shows that rival 
philosophers are as earnest as rival politicians. Instead of dividing the 
world into Platonists and Aristotelians, it may be fairer to class all 
thinking men as either materialists or spiritualists, and to this latter 
class would belong followers of both Plato and Aristotle. 




BOOK VII. HELLENISM. 

CHAPTER I. ALEXANDRIA, THEOCRITUS. 

I. — The Succession of Alexandria to Athens. The Intimate Relation of Alexan- 
drinism to Modern Literature, through the Roman. The Survival of Greek 
Intellectual Influence after Political Decay. The Gradualness of the Change. 
II. — The Importance of Alexandria for the Cosmopolitan Sway of Greek Influ- 
ence. Its Generous Equipment for its New Duties. The Beginnings of Schol- 
arship. III. — The Learning Influences the Literature. Theocritus, and his Work. 
Its Relation to Contemporary Art. Bion and Moschus. IV. — Extracts. 

I. 

WHEN Greece succumbed to the Macedonian power, its art and 
literature underwent a modification that coincided with the 
political changes whereby that country was reduced to the condition 
of a dependent state. Demosthenes and Aristotle died within a year 
of each other, and they were followed by no great men ; intelligence, 
wit, learning survived, and in new conditions helped to bridge the 
gulf between the wonderful past and the later civilizations, between 

" the glory that was Greece 
And the grandeur that was Rome," 

but the original harmony of political enthusiasm and artistic produc- 
tion was broken, and Greece became a name. Yet the various quali- 
ties remained even when the controlling and guiding inspiration was 
lacking, and in studying the lines on which they moved we are actu- 
ally much nearer the beginnings of modern literature than we have 
been hitherto in examining what may be called the national work of 
Greece. Until the beginning of the present century the classics were 
the sole approved model, but it was the Roman classics that served 
this useful purpose, and the Romans, like our ancestors, really pre- 
ferred the Alexandrine copies to the severer originals. The change 
may be called a most important process of transformation from art to 
artifice, rather than mere decay, and it can be profitably studied only 
when we refuse to condemn the steps that slowly led to making our 
literature what it is. Hence, our study of the later developments is 
no less important and interesting than that of what preceded it. 

As an incident in the history of Greece, the Macedonian supremacy 
was a fatal blow ; that country was at once relegated to the condition 



742 



ALEXANDRIA, THEOCRITUS. 



of a dependent province, and all the springs that had fed its literature 
were at once dried up. The drama lingered as a picture of social 
complications, but the early national spirit was broken, and the 
comedy only reflected the many-sided possibilities perhaps rather 
than the actual incidents of every-day life ; and the philosophy became 
mainly an instrument of moral instruction. But while this condition 
of things is most lamentable for those who study history in sections, 
there is another side to the matter which is full of interest. As an 
event in the history of the world, the breaking of the old limits of 




ALEXANDER THE GREAT. 



national existence was something of incalculable importance, because 
thereby the Greek intelligence was set free to make its way through- 
out all contemporary civilization. It was readily understood that 
material power had slipped from the hands of the Greeks, but their 
intellectual authority remained without a rival, and towards asserting, 
defending, explaining, and promulgating this, every effort was bent. 
It was here that its power lay, and since the conquests of Alexander 
practically laid open the East, and the establishment of Alexandria 
created a new capital of the world where men of all races were welcomed, 
the Greek superiority had an opportunity to make new conquests. 



THE SUPREMACY OE GREEK LITERATURE. 743 

It is, however, of the first importance to remember that the change 
was not a sudden one, which is only to be detected when a compari- 
son is made between any book written in Athens and any book written 
in Alexandria. No such sudden alteration is possible ; the process of 
transformation is always gradual ; just as summer shades into winter 
by a series of differences each one of which contains qualities of both 
seasons, the belated warm day and the moderate frost, so here the 
development of literature took place with no violent cataclysm, but 
by comparatively distinct processes. Already in Menander we may 
detect the underlying basis of individualism which is discernible in 
Euripides; and in the graceless pose of Aristotle we may see the sev- 
erance between science and literature that was, like individualism, so 
prominent in Alexandria, and the late separation between letters and 
life is clearly to be seen in the efforts of the last Athenian writers, 
more especially in the work of Menander. Isocrates, too, as we have 
seen, abounds with instances of the use of oratory as a thing of 
artifice. 

The whole Alexandrine literature was but the legitimate develop- 
ment of Greek literature ; what was implicit in the later writings of 
Athens found explicit utterance, furthered, to be sure, by the condi- 
tions of the new civilization, but not created by them alone. The 
political change was itself the natural outcome of the disorganization 
of Greece, to which its aversion to union naturally led, and a strong 
hand took control of affairs and so gave to the Greeks a material 
power which they were unable to acquire of themselves. Thereby 
their literary and scientific authority was able to prevail over the 
whole ancient world. Not only were peace and leisure obtained for 
study and experiment, but the scattered intellectual forces, thus com- 
bined, formed an impressive mass that stood without a rival. Its 
effect was felt in the East as well as in the West, though of course more 
extensively in the Roman empire, where there existed more curiosity 
and a readier capacity for absorbing the manifold results. But every- 
where Greek physicians, for example, made their way, and carried 
with them more or less science and literature. The possible depend- 
ence of the Sanskrit drama upon the new Greek comedy, of which 
mention has been made, the authority of Aristotle wherever he 
became known, testify to the extent of Grecian fame in remote 
regions. Only in this way was Greece able to find expression in the 
literature of the world. The disintegration of individualism which 
in Greece seemed to lead only to divided effort was succeeded by 
a keen enthusiasm to which all modern literature and science have 
been deeply indebted. 



744 



ALEXANDRIA, THEOCRITUS. 



II. 



The home of the new spirit that manifested itself in Greek literature 
was then Alexandria in Egypt, a city established by Alexander the 




PTOLEMY I. AND HIS WIFE EURYDICE. 



Great for his capital, which should serve as a connecting link between 
the cultivation of the Greeks and the Asiatic civilizations that had 
succumbed before his armies. The plan of the town he drew himself, 



LITERARY ADVANTAGES OF ALEXANDRIA. 745 

and it was worthy of the metropolis of his vast empire. The city was 
about fifteen miles long and four broad, and was advantageously situ- 
ated for commerce. Its population was large, and included Jews, 
Greeks, and Egyptians, who dwelt in separate divisions of the city. 
Strangers from other quarters also flocked in large numbers to this 
first cosmopolitan center. On the early death of Alexander, this city, 
where his body was buried, fell to the share of Ptolemy the First — 
Soter, or Saviour, as he was called — one of the most prominent of the 
great general's Macedonian lieutenants, who founded a line that long 
ruled in this region. The Ptolemies were patrons of literature and 
art ; the first of the line invited men of distinction from Greece to 
adorn his court, after the familiar fashion of Macedonian rulers. Poets 
and philosophers gathered around him, attracted by the most gener- 
ous and flattering offers. Hegesias the Cyrenaic philosopher, Stilpo 
of Megara, Diodorus Cronus, Philetas the poet, Euclid the mathema- 
tician, Straton of Lampsacus, accepted his invitations, and naturally 
attracted others in their wake. Moreover, he or his successor, — for the 
testimony is conflicting,— made residence in Alexandria indispensable 
to scholars by the foundation of the library and the museum. The 
library was the storehouse of a rich mass of Greek literature ; in the reign 
of the second Ptolemy — Ptolemy Philadelphus — it was combined with 
the museum, thus forming an institution of learning such as the world 
had never seen. This museum, or place dear to the muses, was appa- 
rently modeled on the similar philosophical schools which were to be 
found in almost every city in Greece. These places were the resort of 
men of letters, who found a pleasing shelter when, unable longer to share 
in public life, they could prosecute their favorite studies. Generally, a 
library was collected within ; and without were gardens, groves, and 
walks ; the place was further adorned with statues of gods and famous 
men, as were Plato's Academy and Aristotle's Lyceum. Those who 
resorted thither took their meals in common ; sometimes they lived 
within its walls. These schools bore a close resemblance to the mediae- 
val monasteries, where were found the same seclusion and security for 
the interests neglected by the outside world. Indeed, it may not be 
impossible to trace the influence of the museum at Alexandria, to 
some extent an outgrowth of the schools of the ancient philosophers, 
upon the monasteries themselves. 

Thus the museum was much greater and more important than the 
various schools on which it was modeled, as the work that was done 
within its walls was of more lasting authority. It served as a sort of 
university, at which there assembled men of science, grammarians, 
critics, and students of every branch of learning. Instruction was 
given to the young, and every form of research was carried on by 



746 



A LEX A NDRIA , THE CRITUS. 



competent investigators. The literature of the past was collected, 
read, revised, and put in order ; catalogues were made, texts deci- 
phered and explained. As a dying man is anxious to arrange his 
affairs, these later Greeks sought to leave the glories of the past civili- 
zation in perfect condition for their successors. The most eminent 
scholars were put in charge of the institution ; the first was Zenodotus, 




PTOLEMY II. AND ARSINOE. 



the famous editor of the text of the Homeric poems; he was suc- 
ceeded by Callimachus, Eratosthenes, Apollonius of Rhodes, Aris- 
tophanes of Byzantium, and Aristarchus. We shall see later that the 
claims of these men to admiration for their various contributions to 
the work of their time cover the various fields of literature, science, 
and research for which Alexandria was famous. 

The building itself was generously equipped for various kinds of 



THE ALEXANDRINE LEARNING.— EFFECT ON LITERATURE. 747 

work, with the addition of accommodations for relaxation. There 
was a grove in the inner courtyard, provided with abundant springs. 
On the side of this were porches, adorned with pictures, and here the 
students could meet and discuss various questions. In a large hall 
meals were provided ; and probably there were lodging-rooms for the 
teachers and officials. The most important part was the library itself ; 
another useful division was that where medicine and surgery were 
practised. A zoological garden may have been in close proximity, 
although its exact position is uncertain. Astronomical investigations 
might have been pursued on the roof of the large edifice, whither 
students resorted in large numbers to study under the celebrated 
men who here laid the foundations of scientific teaching. The 
number of the books accumulated there is uncertain ; various esti- 
mates are to be found in different writings of the ancients ; it doubt- 
less contained the greater part of Greek literature, more definite 
statement can not be made. Even the round and large numbers of 
the manuscripts that it is said to have contained are unsatisfactory 
unless we know just how many of these would go to the making of a 
printed volume. We may only be sure that the books were many, 
and in general that the world had never seen before, and has never 
seen since, such generous provision for all manner of scientific and 
literary work. 

The most striking quality of the period was its learning. The 
whole equipment of the place and the enthusiasm of those who 
gathered there ran in that direction. The whole literature felt the 
impulse of the new movement, and in the absence of other sources of 
inspiration began anew by making itself over after approved models ; 
in other words, instead of being a natural growth, it began to be 
literary. Not that this change appeared suddenly, without fore- 
bodings, for nothing of the kind has ever happened by a violent 
movement. Even when a change in external circumstances has paved 
the way, old traditions survive, as in the languid American imitation 
of English models after a violent political rupture, or else the liter- 
ature has long borne the marks that have made clear to later stu- 
dents how much the revolution was the final expression of a protracted 
struggle between new and old thoughts and ideas. In the later mani- 
festations of the Greek drama, in the plays of Euripides and Menan- 
der, modern literature began. The former public spirit had faded 
away ; the perfection of the art of Sophocles is a sign that the old 
form had reached its highest mark and was to be succeeded by an- 
other movement, and in this the old religious feeling had no place. 
The uncertainty, the unevenness of Euripides were the gropings of a 
man with a magnificent inheritance in Greek verse who was wandering 



74 8 ALEXANDRIA, THEOCRITUS. 

in the mazes of free thought that forbade his receiving any traditional 
explanation of the universe. He was the representative of the new 
spirit that knew nothing of authority, that set the human mind face 
to face with ethical problems which were not to be settled by any 
appeal to divine injunctions or warnings, but had to be solved by 
human efforts alone. Only in such an atmosphere could philosophy 
thrive, only when thought was free from authority could Plato utter 
the golden statement that it is better to suffer, than to do, injustice. 
In the contemporary tragedy we see reflected the struggle of men 
with these new questions, and then it is that individuals, with their 
strongly marked personal characteristics, make their appearance, tak- 
ing the place formerly held by more or less ideal figures. This was 
the first step in the direction in which modern literature has made its 
most important advance. The change in comedy was very similar, 
namely, from the lofty teaching of Aristophanes to the acuter but 
narrower study of manners ; the devotion to great principles being 
followed by a keen criticism of human nature, thus foretelling the 
departure from the old instruction to mere amusement. 



III. 

The new literature of Alexandria was unable to go back to the 
homogeneity of early Athenian life, and it became the expression of 
the learning that was now the only form of intellectual excitement. 
All the approved methods were conscientiously followed : epics were 
manufactured with the same painful sincerity that at the present day 
is employed upon making old-fashioned furniture ; elegies and lyrics 
were repeated with wonderful success ; didactic poetry found its own 
home where science was beginning. The most important of these 
later poets was Theocritus, the Sicilian, whose bucolics sounded a 
fascinating note of nature amid this medley of artificialities. Of his 
life almost nothing is known, except that he was born at Syracuse, and 
that at some time or other — probably about 250 B.C. — he was at Alex- 
andria. He is said, too, to have been a pupil of Philetas, but of him, 
as well as of Asclepiades and Lycidas — all known in antiquity as 
writers of verse — almost nothing but his name has come down to us 

The work of Theocritus as we have it consists of thirty idyls and 
almost as many epigrams, which were probably collected after his 
death by the grammarians. The genuineness of some pieces ascribed 
to Theocritus is contested by many editors, and, in some cases, on 
excellent grounds; but with few exceptions the different poems appar- 
ently belong to the same time and were the product of similar circum- 



THE THEME OF THE POEMS OF THEOCRITUS. 749 

stances. His most important subject is rustic life, — whence the name 
bucolics often loosely applied to all the idyls, — which he treats in various 
ways that set forth the emotions, passions, and interests of shepherds. 
The origin of these representations of pastoral scenes is traced to 
Sicily, although in much Greek poetry, from Homer down, are to be 
found many graceful pictures of country life, partly due at first to 
vague memories of the nomadic existence that preceded the early 
civilization, and later to the contrast between the eager, artificial life 
of the city and the rather apparent than real simplicity and innocence 
of country-people. It was among the Alexandrines that its represen- 
tatives first became a separate literary form, according to the law that 
has since been very often exemplified, that in a very conventional 
period men's tastes turn for refreshment to a deliberate imitation of 
nature ; they do this exactly as in a hot summer day one seeks the cool 
shade. The term " nature " is as vague here, however, as it is every 
where, and in artificial times it becomes highly conventional, just as in 
the days of Louis XIV. the gardens were laid out in trim walks and 
parterres, and the trees were cut into formal shapes. Theocritus may 
well have heard shepherds singing together in friendly or angry 
rivalry, and singing with the grace that still lingers in modern Greek 
folk-songs ; it was his merit that he gave it a place in literature, and 
that the time in which he lived was not wholly given up to purely 
artificial verse is proved by the many charming touches with which 
the poems are filled. 

In some of his idyls Theocritus followed the early Sicilian mimics, 
or little pieces of dramatic action, without music or any of the formali- 
ties of the comedy, that caricatured or simply portrayed bits out of 
life ; such was the one that represents the chattering women at the 
festival of Adonis, which will be found below. The one quality to be 
found in all that can be fairly ascribed to him is the brevity, the ar- 
tistic conciseness of his work. The name idyls, from the Greek word 
meaning little pictures, is most fortunately chosen, for, as has been 
often said, the poems are like a gallery of genre pictures, and critics 
have often pointed out the close resemblance between many of the 
scenes that he describes and the Pompeian wall-paintings that are the 
only relics that we have of this branch of Alexandrine art, for the 
Romans copied the work of their more immediate predecessors in 
painting as well as letters. 

Examples of the similarity are very common ; thus, in his sixth 
idyl, Polyphemus, we are told, awaits a messenger from Galatea ; 
this messenger would have been one of the countless figures of Eros 
who flourished in the Alexandrine paintings, dancing attendance, 
holding flowers, lifting a corner of drapery, in all the graceful 



75° ALEXANDRIA, THEOCRITUS. 

and suggestive attitudes for which their legitimate descendants, the 
modern Cupids of the valentine, are famous. More striking still is the 
description Moschus gives us of the Rape of Europa, whose attitude 
and gestures appear to be copied from what was a favorite and often 
repeated picture of the scene. " Europa, riding on the back of the 
divine bull, with one hand clasped the beast's great horn, and with 
the other caught up her garment's purple fold, lest it 
should trail and be drenched in the spray of the sea. 
And her deep robe was blown out in the wind, like a 
ship's sail, and it wafted the maiden onward." 

The whole scene as thus described is like an account 




EUROPA RID- 

JG ON 

BULL. 



of a picture. 



It is not merely the fact of the resemblance between 



certain lines of the poems and certain paintings that 
needs to be pointed out, but rather the tendency common to the two 
arts towards the representation of minute circumstance. That they 
should move on parallel lines will surprise no one who has ever given 
the subject a moment's consideration, for history abounds with 
examples of similar coincidence. Some incidents have been already 
pointed out in this book, and others readily suggest themselves, such 
as that between the work of Hogarth and the vein of realism that 
appeared in the works of Fielding and Smollett in the last century. 
The new interest in the work of classical antiquity left its memorial 
in the paintings of the school of which David was the head, as well 
as in the poems of Andre Ch6nier, Landor, and the classical attempts 
of Goethe and Schiller. Millet recorded in painting the novel impor- 
tance of the peasants as this had found expression in the poetry of 
Burns and in the tendency of modern politics. There is no need of 
multiplying instances to corroborate what has every qualification for 
its proper position as a trite commonplace save general acceptance. 
So strenuous have been the efforts to bind up the study of painting 
and writing as wholly separate entities that this most obvious truth 
has been often overlooked by men who have forgotten that all that 
men do is but the resultant of the countless influences of their time, 
and that thus is secured a striking similarity of result. That there 
should have been this resemblance between the poetry and the paint- 
ing of Alexandria need not then surprise us, and that painting should 
have taken the lead is readily explicable. 

The really great literature of Greece found its counterpart in the 
sculpture, where there breathes the same repose of perfect art ; but both 
of these — or, to state it more exactly, all this — had died with the loss 
of political power, and the artistic utterances of Alexandria had their 
origin elsewhere. What had made Athens so great — the identity of 



INFLUENCE OF THE EAST UPON GREEK LITERATURE. 



75* 



the citizen with the state was a condition that found no existence 
under the despotic rule of the Ptolemies, and the conditions most 
prominent were the opportunities for learning, and the wealth of the 
East then first opened to the Greeks. Before the end of the Athenian 
civilization; communication had begun, but it was the conquests of 
Alexander that made intercourse generally possible, and at once traces 
of Asiatic influence made their appearance in decorative art, exactly 
as the opening of Japan has affected the art of all modern civilized 
peoples. Oriental dress became common, metal work, vases, paintings, 
all felt the change ; a new spur was given to Greek art, and Alexandria 
learned to know something that bore a great likeness to modern 
luxury with its far-reaching cosmopolitanism. Literature expressed 
the change as well as the fine arts, and the two forms of expression 
were modified in very nearly the same way, mov- 
ing towards refinement, a graceful realism, and 
attractive delicacy. We have seen the corre- 
spondence between the genre paintings and the 
idyls ; we may also notice that between the 
gems and the epigrams, a title that bore among 





GEMS OF ALEXANDRINE EPOCH. 



the ancients not the significance that it has with us, but merely 
that of an inscription. The Alexandrines excelled in the gem and the 
epigram, and at the same time. Both called for the same qualities: 
grace, facility of execution, and conciseness, and these were all to be 
found in this new home of letters and the arts, where men had no 
serious message to deliver, and were free to bring into their work all 
the refinement that learning could furnish, and the strong note of 
individuality that took the place of the great general principles that 
Greece uttered to the world. We shall see later in what respects the 
Alexandrine epigram differed from the earlier models; it is sufficient 



75 2 ALEXANDRIA, THEOCRITUS. 

to point out here the same similarity to the contemporary gem that 
we may notice to-day between the common forms of exotic household 
decoration and the fantastic forms of verse that delight our poets. 

Certainly in Theocritus there are abundant instances of grace and 
facility. Everything is nearly in miniature ; miniature epic, as in the 
twenty-fifth idyl recounting some of the deeds of Heracles ; miniature 
drama, as in the fourteenth, wherein ^Eschines describes his quarrel 
with his mistress, to say nothing of the brief pastorals ; and in all the 
effect of vivid reality is produced by the lightest touches. Thus, 
Castor and Polydeuces, in the twenty-second idyl, — 

CASTOR AND POLYDEUCES (POLLUX). 

" Went wandering alone, apart from their fellows, and marvelling at all 
the various wildwood on the mountain. Beneath a smooth cliff they found 
an ever-flowing spring filled with the purest water, and the pebbles shone 
like crystal or silver from the deep. Tall fir-trees grew thereby, and white 
poplars and planes, and cypresses with their lofty tufts of leaves, and there 
bloomed all fragrant flowers that fill the meadows when early summer is 
waning — dear worksteads of the hairy bees." 

Again in the fifth : 

44 Here be oak-trees, and here the galingale, and sweetly here hum the 
bees about the hives. There are two waves of chill water, and on the tree 
the birds are warbling, and the shadow is beyond compare with that where 
thou liest, and from on high the pine-tree pelts us with her cones." 

And his dramatic skill is as marked as his descriptive, as the 
specimens given below will show. To prove the fascinations of his 
style one need scarcely to add to those further examples. Yet, how 
graceful is the artifice here with which mythology and observation are 
mingled : 

44 Never was Heracles apart from Hylas, not when mid-noon was high in 
heaven, not when Dawn with her white horses speeds upwards to the dwell- 
ing of Zeus, not when the twittering nestlings look towards the perch, while 
their mother flaps her wings above the smoke-browned beam ; and all this 
that the lad might be fashioned to his mind, and might drive a straight fur- 
row, and come to the true measure of man." 

But there would be no end of the quotations that might establish, 
what is already sufficiently obvious, that he who introduced pastoral 
poetry into literature had the charm of naturalness above those who 
have imitated him. The characters of his idyls possess a reality which 
not all his rivals have caught ; they have done their best to make their 
shepherds superfine. Those of Theocritus wore the skin of the he- 
goat ; they pricked their feet on thorns; ever since then they have 
worn rich clothes and have protected their feet with red-heeled shoes, 
as they have gradually dwindled away into the choruses of the Italian 



754 ALEXANDRIA, THEOCRITUS. 

opera. Even Bion and Moschus, who were apparently his contem- 
poraries, fall far short of him. We are far from Sicily and near Alex- 
andria when we read their sophisticated poems. Of Bion we have 
a Lament for Adonis which might have been sung at the festival 
described in the fifteenth idyl of Theocritus, a fragment of a poem 
about the youth of Achilles, and a few other idyllic bits about the 
Loves and Spring, — all charming ; of Moschus, the Rape of Europa, 
the Lament for Bion, the earliest of a long line of pastoral elegies ; a 
dialogue between the mother and wife of Heracles, and a handful of 
smaller fragments. Of the lives of these later men we know nothing 
except — from Moschus's Lament — that Bion died from poison ; but 
their work, while it seems to show traces of the influence of Theo- 
critus, is also full of the spirit of Alexandria. 

IV. 
THE TWO WORKMEN. 

MlLO. 

Well, my poor ploughman, and what ails thee now ? 

Thy furrow lies not even as of yore : 

Thy fellows leave behind thy lagging plough, 

As the flock leaves a ewe whose feet are sore : 

By noon and midday what will be thy plight 

If now, so soon, thy coulter fails to bite ? 

Battus. 
Hewn from hard rocks, untired at set of sun, 
Milo, didst ne'er regret some absent one ? 

MlLO. 

Not I. What time have workers for regret? 

Battus. 
Hath love ne'er kept thee from thy slumbers yet ? 

Milo. 
Nay, heaven forbid ! If once the cat taste cream ! 

Battus. 
Milo, these ten days love hath been my dream. 

Milo. 
You drain your wine, while vinegar's scarce with me. 

Battus. 
Hence since last spring untrimmed my borders be. 

Milo. 
And what lass flouts thee ? 

Battus. 

She whom we heard play 
Amongst Hippocoon's reapers yesterday. 



THEOCRITUS : THE TWO WORKMEN 755 

MlLO. 

Your sins have found you out — you're e'en served right : 
You'll clasp a corn-crake in your arms all night. 

Battus. 

You laugh : but headstrong Love is blind no less 
Than Plutus : talking big is foolishness. 

MlLO. 

I don't talk big. But lay the corn-ears low 
And sing the while some love-song — easier so 
Will seem your toil : you used to sing, I know. 

Battus. 
Maids of Pieria, of my slim lass sing ! 
One touch of yours ennobles everything. 

[Sings.] My sweet ! on thy complexion men remark ; 

Call thee shrunk, swart : I call thee olive-brown. 
Violets and pencilled hyacinths are dark, 
Yet first of flowers they're chosen for a crown. 
As goats pursue the clover, wolves the goat, 
And cranes the ploughman, upon thee I dote. 

Had I but Croesus' wealth, we twain should stand, 

Gold-sculptured, in Love's temple : thou should'st play 

Thy pipe, a rose or apple in thy hand, 

I flaunt my minstrel's robe and sandals gay. 

Bombyca ! twinkling ebony are thy feet, 

Honey thy mouth, thy ways none knows how sweet ! 

MlLO. 
Fine verses can this unknown herdsman make — 
How shone the artist in each measured line ! 
Why, lad, that beard grew on thee by mistake ! 
List to this stave, by Lytierse the divine. 

[Sings.] O rich in fruit and cornblade : be this field 
Tilled well, Demeter, and fair fruitage yield ! 

Bind the sheaves, reapers : lest one, passing, say — 
'A fig for these, they're never worth their pay.' 

Let the mown swathes look northward, ye who mow, 
Or westward — for the ears grow fattest so. 

Avoid a noontide nap, ye threshing men : 

The chaff flies thickest from the corn-ears then. 

Wake when the lark wakes ; when he slumbers, close 
Your work, ye reapers : and at noontide doze. 

Boys, the frogs' life for me ! They need not him 
Who fills the flagon, for in drink they swim. 

Better boil herbs, thou toiler after gain, 

Than, splitting cummin, split thy hand in twain. 

This that I've sung thee, ploughman, is a tune 

For men to sing that swelter in the sun. 

Thy meagre love-tale is a thing to croon 

In thy mamma's ear when her dreams are done. 



75 6 ALEXANDRIA, THEOCRITUS. 

Id. XV. 

THE TWO LADIES OF SYRACUSE. 
Gorgo. — Praxinoa. 

GORGO. 

Is Dame Praxinoa in ? 

Praxinoa. 

Yes, Gorgo dear. 
How late you are — the only marvel is 
You're here at all ! Quick, Eunoa, find a chair 
And fling a cushion on it. 



Gorgo. 




Thanks. 




Praxinoa. 


■. - 




Sit down 



Gorgo. 
Oh what a thing is spirit ! Here I am, 
Praxinoa, safe at last from all that crowd 
And all those chariots .... every street a mass 
Of boots and soldiers' jackets ! .... Oh ! the road 
Seemed endless . . . . and you live so far away ! 

Praxinoa. 
This land's-end den — for dwelling it is not — 
My madcap hired to keep us twain apart 
And stir up strife. 'Twas like him, odious pest ! 

Gorgo. 
Nay, call not, dear, your lord, your Deinon, names 
To the babe's face. Look how it stares at you. 

Praxinoa. 
There, baby sweet, I never meant Papa ! 

Gorgo. 
It understands, by'r lady ! dear Papa ! 

Praxinoa. 
Well, yesterday (that means what day you like) 
' Papa ' had rouge and hair-powder to buy ; 
He brought back salt ! this oaf of six-foot-one. 

Gorgo. 
Just such another is that pickpocket 
My Diocleides ! He bought t'other day 
Six fleeces at seven drachms, his last exploit. 
What were they ? Scraps of worn-out pedlar's-bags, 
Sheer trash. — But put your gown and kirtle on ; 
And we'll to Ptolemy's, the sumptuous king, 
To see the Ado?iis. As I hear, the queen 
Provides us entertainment of the best. 

Praxinoa. 
The grand can do things grandly. Tell me more, 
You that have seen : be eyes unto the blind. 



THEOCRITUS: THE TWO LADIES OF SYRACUSE. 757 

GORGO. 
'Twere time we went — but all time's noliday 
With idlers. 

Praxinoa. 
Eunoa, pampered minx, the jug ! 
Set it down here — you cats would sleep all day 
On cushions — stir yourself, fetch water, quick ! 
Water's our first want. How she holds the jug ! 
Now, pour — not, cormorant, in that wasteful way — 
You've drenched my dress, bad luck t' you ! There, 

enough : 
I have made such toilet as my fates allowed. 
Now for the key o' the plate-chest. Bring it, quick ! 

Gorgo: 
My dear, that full pelisse becomes you well. 
What did it stand you in, straight off the loom ? 

Praxinoa. 
Don't ask me, Gorgo: two good pounds and more. 
Then I gave all my mind to trimming it. 

GORGO. 
Well, 'tis a great success. Where have you left 
My mantle, Eunoa, and my parasol ? 
Arrange me nicely. Babe, you'll bide at home : 
Horses might eat you, ghosts ! — yes, cry your fill, 
But we won't have you maimed. Now let's be off. 
You, Phrygia, take and nurse the tiny thing : 
Call the dog in : make fast the outer door. 

Praxinoa. 
Gods ! what a crowd ! How, when shall we get past 
This nuisance, these unending ant-like swarms ? 
Yet, Ptolemy, we owe thee thanks for much 
Since heaven received thy sire ! No miscreant now 
Creeps Thug-like up, to maul the passer-by. 
What games men played erewhile — men shaped in crime, 
Birds of a feather, rascals every one ! 
— We're done for, Gorgo darling — here they are, 
The Royal horse ! Sweet sir, don't trample me ! 
That bay — the savage ! — reared up straight on end ! 
Fly, Eunoa, can't you ! Doggedly she stands. 
He'll be his rider's death ! — How glad I am 
My babe's at home. 

GORGO. 
Praxinoa, never mind ! 
See, we're before them now, and they're in line. 

Praxinoa. 
There, I'm myself. But from a child I feared 
Horses and slimy snakes. But haste we on : 
A surging multitude is close behind. 

GORGO [to Old Lady]. 
From the palace, mother ? 

Old Lady. 

Ay, child. 



75 8 ALEXANDRIA, THEOCRITUS. 

GORGO. 

Is it fair 
Of access ? 

Old Lady. 
Trying brought the Greeks to Troy. 
Young ladies, they must try who would succeed. 

GORGO. 
The crone hath said her oracle and gone. 
Women know all — how Adam married Eve. 
— Praxinoa, look what crowds are round the door ! 

Praxinoa. 
Fearful. Your hand, please, Gorgo. Eunoa, you 
Hold Eutychus — hold, tight or you'll be lost. 
We'll enter in a body — hold us fast ! 
Oh dear, my muslin dress is torn in two, 
Gorgo, already ! Pray, good gentleman, 
(And happiness be yours) respect my robe ! 

Stranger. 
I could not if I would — nathless I will. 

Praxinoa. 
They come in hundreds, and they push like swine. 

Stranger. 
Lady, take courage : it is all well now. 

Praxinoa. 
And now and ever be it well with thee, 
Sweet man, for shielding us ! An honest soul 
And kindly. Oh ! we're smothering Eunoa: 
Fight your way, trembler ! Good ! ' We're all in now, 
As quoth the goodman, and shut out his wife. 

Gorgo. 
Praxinoa, look ! Note well this broidery first. 
How exquisitely fine — too good for earth ! 
Empress Athene, what strange sempstress wrought 
Such work ? What painter painted, realized 
Such pictures ? Just like life they stand or move, 
Facts and not fancies ! What a thing is man ! 
How bright, how lifelike on his silvern couch 
Lies, with youth's bloom scarce shadowing his cheek, 
That dear Adonis, lovely e'en in death ! 

A Stranger. 
Bad luck t' you, cease your senseless pigeon's prate ! 
Their brogue is killing — every word a drawl. 

Gorgo. 
Whence did he spring from ? What is it to thee 
If we two prattle ? Order, sir, your slaves : 
You're ordering Syracusan ladies now ! 
Corinthians bred (to tell you one fact more) 
As was Bellerophon : islanders in speech, 
For Dorians may talk Doric, I presume ? 

Praxinoa. 
Persephone ! Our master's yet unborn. 
I've but one terror, lest he soil my gown. 



THEOCRITUS: THE TWO LADIES OF SYRACUSE. 759 

GORGO. 
Hush, dear, Argeia's daughter's going to sing 
The Adonis : that accomplished vocalist 
Who has no rival in " The Sailor s Grave." 
Mark her coquetting with her music now. 

Song. 

Queen, who lov'st Golgi and the Sicel hill 

And Ida ; Aphrodite radiant-eyed ; 

The dainty-footed Hours from Acheron's rill 

Brought once again Adonis to thy side. 

How changed in twelve short months ! They travel slow, 

Those precious Hours : we hail their advent still, 

For blessings do they bring to all below. 

O Sea-born ! thou didst erst, or legend lies, 

Shed on a woman's soul thy grace benign, 

And Berenice's dust immortalize. 

O called by many names, at many a shrine ! 

For thy sweet sake doth Berenice's child 

(Herself a second Helen) deck with all 

That's fair, Adonis. On his right are piled 

Ripe apples fallen from the oak-tree tall ; 

And silver caskets at his left support 

Toy-gardens, Syrian scents enshrined in gold 

And alabaster, cakes of every sort 

That in their ovens the pastrywomen mould, 

When with white meal they mix all flowers that bloom, 

Oil-cakes and honey-cakes. There stand portrayed 

Each bird, each butterfly ; and in the gloom 

Of foliage climbing high, and downward weighed 

By graceful blossoms, do the young Loves play 

Like nightingales, and perch on every tree, 

And flit, to try their wings, from spray to spray. 

Then see the gold, the ebony ! O see 

The ivory-carven eagles, bearing up 

To Zeus the boy who fills his royal cup ! 

Soft as a dream, such tap'stry gleams o'erhead 

As the Milesian's self would gaze on, charmed. 

But sweet Adonis hath his own sweet bed : 

Next Aphrodite sleeps the roseate-armed, 

A bridegroom of eighteen or nineteen years. 

Kiss the smooth boyish lip — there's no sting there ! 

The bride hath found her own : all bliss be hers ! 

And him at dewy dawn we'll troop to bear 

To where the breakers hiss against the shore : 

There, with dishevelled dress and unbound hair, 

Bare-bosomed all, our descant wild we'll pour : 

" Thou haunt'st, Adonis, earth and heaven in turn, 

Alone of heroes. Agamemnon ne'er 

Could compass this, nor Aias stout and stern : 

Not Hector, eldest-born of her who bare 

Ten sons, not Patrocles, nor safe-returned 

From Ilium Pyrrhus, such distinction earned ; 

Nor, elder yet, the sons of Lapithas, 

Of Pelops and Deucalion, and the crown 

Of Greece, Pelasgians. Gracious may'st thou be, 

Adonis, now : pour new-year's blessings down ! 

Right welcome dost thou come, Adonis dear : 

Come when thou wilt, thou'lt find a welcome here." 



760 



ALEXANDRIA, THEOCRITUS. 




GORGO. 

Tis fine, Praxinoa ! How I envy her 

Her learning, and still more her luscious 

voice ! 
We must go home : my husband's sup- 

perless : 
And, in that state, he's simply vinegar. 
Don't cross his path when hungry ! So 

farewell, 
Adonis, and be housed 'mid welfare aye ! 

THE LAMENT FOR ADONIS. 

Woe, woe for Adonis, he hath perished, 
the beauteous Adonis, dead is the beauteous 
Adonis, the Loves join in the lament. No 
more in thy purple raiment, Cypris, do thou 
sleep ; arise, thou wretched one, sable- 
stoled, and beat thy breasts, and say to all, 
' he hath perished, the lovely Adonis ! ' 

Woe, woe for Adonis, the Loves joi?i in the 
lament / 

Low on the hills is lying the lovely 
Adonis, and his thigh with the boar's tusk, 
his white thigh with the boar's tusk is 
wounded, and sorrow on Cypris he brings, 
as softly he breathes his life away. 

His dark blood drips down his skin of 
snow, beneath his brows his eyes wax heavy 
and dim, and the rose flees from his lip, and 
thereon the very kiss is dying, the kiss that 
Cypris will never forego. 

To Cypris his kiss is dear, though he 
lives no longer, but Adonis knew not that 
she kissed him as he died. 

Woe, woe for Adonis, the Loves join in the 

lament ! 
A cruel, cruel wound on his thigh hath 
Adonis, but a deeper wound in her heart 
doth Cytherea bear. About him his dear 
hounds are loudly baying, and the nymphs 
of the wild wood wail him ; but Aphrodite 
with unbound locks through the glades 
goes wandering, — wretched, with hair un- 
braided, with feet unsandaled, and the thorns 
as she passes wound her and pluck the blos- 
som of her sacred blood. Shrill she wails 
as down the long woodlands she is borne, 
lamenting her Assyrian lord, and again 
calling him, and again. But round his 
navel the dark blood leapt forth, with blood 
from his thighs his chest was scarlet, and 
beneath Adonis' breast, the spaces that 
afore were snow-white, were purple with 
blood. 
Woe, woe for Cytherea, the Loves join in 

the lament ! 



THEOCRITUS: THE LAMENT FOR BION. 761 

She hath lost her lovely lord, with him she hath lost her sacred beauty. Fair was 
the form of Cypris, while Adonis was living, but her beauty has died with Adonis. 
Woe, woe for Cypris, the mountains all are saying, and the oak-trees answer, woe 
for Adorns. And the rivers bewail the sorrows of Aphrodite, and the wells are 
weeping Adonis on the mountains. The flowers flush red for anguish, and 
Cytherea through all the mountain-knees, through every dell, doth shrill the piteous 
dirge. 

Woe, woe for Cytherea, he hath perished, the lovely Adonis. 

THE LAMENT FOR BION. 

Wail, let me hear you wail, ye woodland glades, and thou Dorian water; and weep 
ye rivers, for Bion, the well-beloved ! Now all ye green things mourn, and now ye 
groves lament him, ye flowers now in sad clusters breathe yourselves away. Now 
redden ye roses in your sorrow, and now wax red ye wind-flowers, now thou hyacinth, 
whisper the letters on thee engraved, and add a deeper ai ai to thy petals ; he is dead, 
the beautiful singer. 

Begin, ye Sicilian Muses, begin the dirge. 

Ye nightingales that lament among the thick leaves of the trees, tell ye to the 
Sicilian waters of Arethusa the tidings that Bion the herdsman is dead, and that with 
Bion song too has died, and perished hath the Dorian minstrelsy. 
Begin, ye Sicilian Muses, begin the dirge. 

Ye Strymonian swans, sadly wail ye by the waters, and chant with melancholy 
notes the dolorous song, even such a song as in his time with voice like yours he was 
wont to sing. And tell again to the GEagrian maidens, tell to all the Nymphs Bis- 
tonian, how that he hath perished, the Dorian Orpheus. 

Begin, ye Sicilian Muses, begin the dirge. 

No more to his herds he sings, that beloved herdsman, no more 'neath the lonely 
oak he sits and sings, nay, but by Pluteus' side he chants a refrain of oblivion. The 
mountains too are voiceless : and the heifers by the bulls that wander lament and 
refuse their pasture. 

Begin, ye Sicilia7i Muses, begin the dirge. 

Thy sudden doom, oh Bion, Apollo himself lamented, and the Satyrs mourned 
thee, and the Priapi in sable raiment, and the Panes sorrow for thy song, and the foun- 
tain-fairies in the wood made moan, and their tears turned to rivers of waters. And 
Echo in the rocks laments that thou art silent, and no more she mimics thy voice. 
And in sorrow for thy fall the trees cast down their fruit, and all the flowers have 
faded. From the ewes hath flowed no fair milk, nor honey from the hives, nay, it 
hath perished for mere sorrow in the wax, for now hath thy honey perished, and no 
more it behoves men to gather the honey of the bees. 

Begin, ye Sicilian Muses, begin the dirge. 

Not so much did the dolphin mourn beside the sea-banks, nor ever sang so sweet 
the nightingale on the cliffs, nor so much lamented the swallow on the long ranges 
of the hills, nor shrilled so loud the halcyon o'er his sorrows ; 

{Begin, ye Sicilian Muses, begin the dirge) 
Nor so much, by the grey sea waves, did ever the sea-bird sing, nor so much in the 
dells of the dawn did the bird of Memnon bewail the son of the Morning, fluttering 
around his tomb, as they lamented for Bion dead. 

Nightingales, and all the swallows that once he was wont delight, that he would 
teach to speak, they sat over against each other on the boughs and kept moaning, 
and the birds sang in answer ' Wail, ye wretched ones, even ye ! ' 



CHAPTER II.— THE POETRY.— Continued. 

I. — The Relation of the New Movement to the Later Condition of Athens. Changed 
Treatment of Women, and their Influence. The Pastorals and Elegies. An- 
timachus. The Growth of Literary Art, and Various Writers of Forgotten Fame. 
II. — Callimachus. The Lyric Poetry. The Drama. III. — The Epic Writers. 
Apollonius Rhodius, and his Argonautics ; its Influence on Roman Writers. The 
Didactic Poets: Aratus, Nicander, etc., etc. Some Minor Writers of Verse. 
IV. — Nonnus, and his Learned Epic. Musaeus. V. — Quintus Smyrnaeus, and 
his Unexpected Vigor. The Gradual Dwindling of Poetry. VI. — The Anthol- 
ogy. Its Gradual Formation. Its Abundance. The Epigram. VII. — Extracts 
from the Anthology. 



THE spirit of Alexandria, very naturally, was but the full develop- 
ment of what had made its appearance in the preparatory 
enfeeblement of the Athenian power. We saw in examining the 
work of Euripides the new way in which the gods were treated, and 
the continual tendency towards diminishing the difference between 
them and human beings, as well as the growing prominence of personal 
characteristics in the human heroes and heroines. The heroic pas- 
sions, which were necessarily abstract because they dealt with the 
needs of such abstractions as the state, vanished with the growth of 
political hopefulness, to be succeeded by a greater interest in the 
emotions of the separate individuals. As the controlling bonds that 
held the citizens together were loosened, their own interests became 
prominent and found expression in literature, and what was indicated 
by Euripides became the sole motive in Alexandria. In the last of 
the three great Athenian tragedians we noticed how much stress was 
laid on love. Aristophanes perceived the change ; in the Frogs he 
lets ^Eschylus boast that he had never brought a woman in love upon 
the stage, and although Sophocles could not have said the same thing, 
the love that he represented was distinctly a heroic passion, while in 
Euripides it became, as we saw, a leading subject. Phedrus and Hip- 
polyta, Perseus and Andromeda, Meleager and Atalanta, Jason and 
Medea, Protesialaus and Laodameia, at once suggest themselves as 
examples of the tragedian's manifold treatment of the passion, as it 
showed itself in unmarried girls or married women, employing mytho- 
logical stories, but giving them a human treatment. In comedy a 
similar change took place ; we have the testimony of both Plutarch 



WOMEN, AND THEIR INFLUENCE. 



763 



and Ovid that all his plays treated love, and it is one of the most 
important elements of all the Alexandrine poetry. 

In the new capital women escaped from many of the bonds that 
had weighed heavy upon them in the Athenian civilization which 
granted them few privileges, but demanded that they should busy 
themselves with housekeeping alone. There are a thousand indica- 
tions of this great social change ; whereas we find in Euripides fre- 
quent expressions of the duty of women to keep at home or to go out 
only under the escort of a slave, — so often indeed is this advice 
repeated that one is led to suppose that the rule was often broken — 
whereas, in the idyl of Theocritus quoted above, Gorgo and Praxinoa 
are represented as going forth unaccompanied to see the festival of 
Adonis, falling into talk with an unknown man without embarrassment, 
after a fashion impossible in any picture of Athenian life. Women, 




GIRLS READING. 



too, at this time became active in political intrigues, and the literature 
is full of references indicating their growing importance. We hear of 
them devoting themselves to study, writing poetry, and painting 
pictures. 

It is clear that these changes helped to bring into prominence 
everything that had to do with the widened influence of women, and 
love with all its various complications became a main source of inspira- 
tion with Alexandrine writers. We have seen how much was made 
of it by the poets in their pastorals ; in the elegies, too, we find it 
holding a leading place. For a long time this form of composition 
had lost the importance that belonged to it before the Persian war, 
and when the drama arose, with its fuller significance, the elegy 
shriveled into the epigram or became the vehicle of mere personal 



764 THE POETRY— {CONTINUED). 

interest. We hear for some time of no one famous writer of elegies, 
yet they were still composed by some of the men who acquired fame 
in other ways, with their lyrics or tragedies, and they formed a literary 
accomplishment of orators, philosophers, and statesmen, thus occupy- 
ing very much the same position as translations of the Greek and 
Roman classics still hold among men who rest their reputation on very 
different things. Time has discreetly winnowed out most of these 
domestic compositions, and we have but little left of the elegies of 
^Eschylus, Sophocles, Euripides, and Aristotle. Fragments survive 
of the work of Ion of Chios, Dionysius Chaleus of Athens, Enenus of 
Paros, a sophist, and Kritias of Athens, the well-known statesman ; 
none, however, convey a message of great importance, but are rather 
of the nature of a host's encouragement to his guests, while some 
express the political opinions of their writers. 

Of far higher reputation was Antimachus of Colophon, who 
flourished about 400 B.C., at the end of the Peloponnesian war, and 
it is interesting to see how much he was affected by the change 
already noticed in the poetical literature of the time. His most 
famous elegiac composition in this sort was a series of elegies collected 
under the name of Lyde, after the real or imaginary mistress whose 
charms and coyness inspired his busy pen. Already Mimnermus, two 
centuries earlier, had given the name of his mistress, Nanno, to some 
of the elegies in which he bemoaned with all the sadness of the 
Ionians his own unhappiness, the brevity of human life, and the swift 
flight of its joys. But what the earlier writer did naturally, Anti- 
machus is said to have done with artifice ; instead of using the emo- 
tions for the production of literature, he used literary memories for 
the purpose of kindling emotion, and made a complete statement of 
the sufferings of others, consoling himself for her death by the vastness 
of his learning, which enabled him to recall those heroes of antiquity 
who had suffered like bereavements. Instead of describing his own 
despair he narrated theirs, and drew comfort, so Plutarch tells us, 
from the abundance of his knowledge. Even if — which is unlikely — 
this statement is a mere anecdote, it yet portrays with indubitable 
accuracy the widespread and perhaps the most characteristic trait 
of Alexandrine poetry, namely, the disposition to let classical 
reminiscences be the current form of literary expression, as if the 
people of this foreign land felt it necessary to give constant proof 
of their legitimate descent from Greece. Political, social, religious 
interest had been lost ; there remained only literary culture which 
busied itself with a husk of fine words and charming phrases. We 
have known men in these later days who have thought that the sole 
profit to be derived from the study of the classics was the ability to 



THE GROWTH OF LITERARY ART. 765 

quote ; this feeble sentiment is a faint echo of the literary enthusiasm 
of Alexandria, which valued this form of accomplishment above every- 
thing and made it for a long time the most valuable test of cultivation. 
This method of treatment, which substituted learning for the lyric 
passion of the first writers of elegies, soon took the lead among the 
Alexandrines and among the Romans, their close imitators. Thus 
Antimachus and Euripides are the forerunners of the change appearing 
in literature. Of the writings of Philetas of Cos, already mentioned 
as an instructor of Theocritus, very little has come down to us, and of 
his life we have but mere scraps of information, that he took charge 
of the education of the son of Ptolemy Soter in 294 B.C. Apparently 
then he had a reputation for learning, and this hypothesis is borne out 
by what little of his work has escaped ruin. These fragments indicate 
a mastery of versification, and it is curious to notice in them some of 
tlie characteristics of a mature civilization. The resemblance of 
Alexandrinism to our own condition at the present day has been often 
pointed out ; the reader will recall Mr. Stedman's ingenious parallel 
between Theocritus and Tennyson in his " Victorian Poets," and here 
we find Philetas falling into line as a representative of a ripe, nearly 
over-ripe period. Thus, he lent a new grace to the long-used metres, 
employing the familiar forms with the facility of a school that inherits 
long practice, like the later mediaeval poets, the last of the Eliza- 
bethans, and those contemporary poets whose control of the vehicle 
of expression is superior to the importance of their message. Again, 
we find traces of the employment by Philetas of long words, a favorite 
device of the Alexandrines, and one that in its modern form will be 
recognized by every reader of Rossetti : e.g., 

" Powers of the impassioned hours prohibited." 

Philetas, too, employed other devices for procuring sonority, such 
as assonance, rare words, and new phrases, whereby he secured the 
unanimous praise of his successors and the honor of frequent imita- 
tion, notably by the Latin poet Propertius. Similar traits distin- 
guished other Alexandrine writers of elegies, as Phanocles and Her- 
mesianax. Fortunately, a fragment of the last-named writer, con- 
taining nearly a hundred lines, has been preserved in that storehouse 
of curiosities, the works of Athenaeus, and from this longest represen- 
tative of the Alexandrine elegies we may corroborate the opinion 
already formed of their general condition. Hermesianax sings love- 
ditties, and in this extract he proves the dignity of the lover by giving 
a list of his fellow-sufferers in the long roll of Greek literature. Thus, 
Homer, he tells an incredulous world, sang of Ithaca, because he was 



7 66 THE POETRY— {CONTINUED). 

consumed by love of Penelope ; his own sufferings inspired him. 
Hesiod was another victim of the tender passion. Socrates was the 
rejected lover of Aspasia. Alcaeus, Mimnernus, and Antimachus 
obviously found a place in his list. Probably, if any one had been 
anxious to give us a specimen of the mingled pedantry and amorous 
elegance of the school, he could not have found a more characteristic 
extract than this. The school was certainly moving far away from 
the models set by the early elegiasts ; yet, since pedantry cannot 
thrive away from the worship of antiquity, Hesiod enjoyed extreme 
popularity among the Alexandrines. Hermesianax called him the 
master of all learning, while Callimachus entitled him the sweetest of 
poets. It is not hard to see what it was that seemed to them admir- 
able ; in some of his work that has disappeared he collected a number 
of stories concerning famous heroines after a fashion that appealed 
directly to these later students. 

Phanocles sang, too, of the power of love, and it is interesting to 
notice how much of modern poetry is closely connected with the 
work of the Alexandrines. The reader will recall the famous lines in 
Milton's Lycidas : 

" What could the muse herself that Orpheus bore, 
The muse herself, for her enchanting son 
Whom universal Nature did lament ; 
When by the rout that made the hideous roar, 
His gory visage down the stream was sent, 
Down the swift Hebrus to the Lesbian shore ? " 

These lines hand down to us the tradition which, so far at least as 
our definite knowledge goes, was first treated by Phanocles, whom 
Virgil again imitated in his Georgics, where the same story is recounted 
in plaintive verse. 

Alexander of Etolia was another writer of elegies, and like most of 
his contemporaries he also tried his hand at other forms of poetical 
composition. He was one of the seven tragic poets who composed 
the Alexandrine pleiad, and he won fame as an epic bard, besides 
being known as a grammarian. But a fragment of his work remains. 
A similar fate has fallen on the work of Eratosthenes (276-146 B.C.), 
who had charge of the library of Alexandria and acquired deserved 
fame for his astronomical and geographical investigations. He was also 
known as a philosopher and historian. These severer studies did not 
render him insensible to the demands of literature. Besides measuring 
the earth and the sun, and raising geography and chronology to the 
rank of sciences, he wrote an epic poem on Hermes, and an elegy, 
Erigone. His versatility throws much light on the intellectual 
enthusiasm then existing. 



CALLIMACHUS.— ELEGIAC POEMS. 767 

II. 

The most important, however, of all these writers of elegies was 
Callimachus of Cyrene, who died about 240 B.C. He wrote in prose as 
well as in verse, composing the first full history of Greek literature, and 
a variety of other books, of which only the names have survived. His 
elegies have been scarcely more fortunate, although their popularity 
at the time and among the Romans, who imitated them freely, was very 
great. Yet, we do know what was the most admired form of that day, 
and the one on the hair of Berenice which was translated by Catullus 
may serve as an example of the lavish and extravagant invention and 
compliment that seemed the height of poetical excellence. Berenice, 
the wife of Ptolemy Euergetes, had made a vow to consecrate to 
Aphrodite a lock of her hair, in case her husband should return in 
safety from a campaign against the Assyrians. Her prayers had been 
granted, Ptolemy returned unharmed, the lock was duly devoted to the 
goddess, when Conon, an astronomer, probably the 
court-astronomer, announced that he had seen it in f — #f^v 
the sky metamorphosed into a new constellation. / ^^^^^\. 
This is the subject of the poem, and its far-fetched / $M$^s*Xs\ \ 
flattery, its curious mixture of compliment and li/^^M^ x jr!) 

science, bring us into the very air of Alexan- t ttl^/V S3 '/ 

dria. Artifice is absolutely triumphant here: ^W^S?C^L/ 
mountains, Callimachus sings, have yielded before ^^OlS^>^ 
steel, what could a poor lock of hair do? Such ptolemy and Berenice. 
was the argument, repeated by Pope in his Rape 
of the Lock, that marked how poetry had become a matter of inge- 
nuity. Learning was never in stranger company. 

From this specimen it is not difficult to imagine what was the nature 
of the lost elegies of Callimachus. Fragments corroborate what is the 
natural presumption that is inspired by this specimen, and by what is 
left of the work of his immediate predecessors and contemporaries. 
Yet, even if what we have fails to arouse keen poetical delight, we 
may yet regret that so little of his writings have escaped ruin. 
Although it was he who said that a great book is a great evil, perhaps 
because he said it, he wrote a vast number of short ones, no less than 
eight hundred, we are told. The most famous was the Aitia, a collec- 
tion of elegies in which he recounted a number of legends, and under- 
took to explain the recondite allusions that they contained to his 
readers, who must have begun to lose their familiarity with them. 
Here, too, it will be noticed, we may observe the scientific tendency 
of the time. 

Some of the hymns of Callimachus are extant, but whether their 



7^8 THE POETRY— {CONTINUED), 

survival is due to chance, or on account of their greater popularity, is 
obscure. They are for the most part frosty work, full of curious 
mythological lore, recounted often with dramatic vividness and literary 
care, but full of the marks of a period of decadence. The subjects 
were of the customary sort : Zeus, Apollo, Artemis, Delos, Demeter, 
the Bath of Pallas, and we come across traces of the influence that 
came from the so-called Homeric hymns, but the most distinctly 
marked quality is the workmanship of Callimachus. Some of the 
epigrams and a piece of an epic of this writer will be spoken of later. 
We have almost nothing left of the lyric poetry of the Alexandrines, 
and indeed in ancient Greece this form of verse had lost its old sig- 
nificance since the development of the drama. Yet even there it had 
not wholly died, although it underwent a change which carried it far 
from its earlier nature. We left it at its perfection in the hands of 
Pindar, surviving in Thebes, and so outside of the intellectual move- 
ment that was making itself felt in Athens. Its perfection foreboded 
the change which was inevitable as tragedy took its place, and the old 
form was much modified by its new and greater rival. It is Melanip- 
pides of Melos who is mentioned as the first to introduce the changes. 
He lived at about the middle of the fifth century, and was honored by 
an attack of the writer of comedies, Pherecrates, for abandoning the 
old music and substituting the new, for Aristophanes was not the only 
comedian to believe that the cause of morality demanded conservatism 
in music. Plato in his Republic expressed similar opinions. Philox- 
enus of Cythera was denounced in the same way. He flourished 
about 400 B.C., and lived at one part of his life in Sicily, at the court 
of Dionysius, where he learned the disadvantages of despotism by 
being cast into prison. Why he was thus punished is uncertain amid 
a variety of conflicting explanations, although the usual statement is 
that he refused to admire the tyrant's poems. The subject of one of 
his own poems was the love of Cyclops for Galatea, a theme employed 
by Theocritus, it will be remembered. Other corrupters of music were 
Cinesias and Phrynis; more important than either was Timotheus the 
Milesian, 446-357 B.C., whose musical innovations brought him trouble 
more severe than the abuse of the conservative writers of comedies. 
He ventured to add additional strings to the cithara, which Terpander 
had provided with seven, and on taking one of his improved instru- 
ments to a musical contest in Sparta he had it snatched from his hands 
by an enraged magistrate, who tore off the new strings and hung up 
the instrument as a warning to future inventors. The story retains 
its Spartan flavor in its continuation, which says that he was officially 
censured for dishonoring ancient music, as well as for his unworthy 
and modern treatment of the myth he sang. Whether these state- 



LYRIC POETRY OF THE ALEXANDRINES. 7 6 9 

ments are true or not, there is abundant proof that the change in the 
art was great and provocative of discussion. In his hands the music 
became mimetic, thereby winning for him a reputation as something 
scarcely better than a blasphemer. Yet, if Plato and Lacedaemonian 
elders blamed, Euripides praised, and the new musicians proved that 
he formed a true estimate of the music of the future. Telestes, Ion, 
Diagoras, Licymnius, Crexus, all followed in the path he pursued, and 
broke away from the old bonds. Even this new development had 
nearly died out without reaching Alexandria, and just as the music 
had undergone a series of changes that destroyed its old rigid 
divisions, so the poetry had become modified, as we have seen ; the 
idyls could become little epics, and we shall see the long epics 
written with all the minutiae of the idyls ; the elegies were only in 
part lyric, and the dithyramb went out. The lyric expression was 
more than anything a vehicle for courtly praise, or a mere idle amuse- 
ment, such as it became in the hands of Simmias, to whom belongs all 
the glory of inventing poems in the shape of various material objects, 
such as the axe. The Sotadic verses, as they were called after their 
inventor Sotades, were even less commendable. 

The drama also faded into something quite as lifeless as the modern 
English play. Seven writers composed the inevitable Pleiad which 
flourished in the reign of Ptolemy Philadelphus, 285-247 B.C.; these 
were Alexander of ^Etolia, already mentioned as an elegiac poet, Sosi- 
theus, Philiseus, Homer the Younger, Acantides, Sosiphanes, and Lyco- 
phron of Chalcis. Yet again we must mourn the loss of nearly all 
their work ; the few fragments that remain are not sufficient to authorize 
any reconstruction of their endeavors to imitate every form of litera- 
ture. The testimony of the Romans, and the titles of the plays, do, 
however, make it clear that they made love their eternal subject, 
therein following the example set by Euripides. Possibly, too, some 
at least of their tragedies were composed rather for the delight of 
readers than for performance on the stage. Such a supposition finds 
a slight warrant in the only poem of Lycophron's that has been pre- 
served. It is a long monologue placed in the mouth of Cassandra, 
foretelling the fall of Troy and the fate of all the principal contestants, 
as well as the subsequent events down to the time of the kings of 
Alexandria. It is well entitled the dark poem, for its learning, which 
is immense, is wrapped up in every device for securing obscurity ; and 
while its literary merit is modest, it offers a rare treat to the gram- 
marian and the historian. Its mythological lore shows the taste of 
the writer's age. The comedy probably followed the methods of 
Menander ; had it not we should probably find traces of its influence 
in Roman literature ; as it is, however, we must content ourselves with 



77° THE POETRY.— {CONTINUED). 

the names of Machon, 250 B.C., and Aristonymus. The satyric drama 
appears to have been a vehicle for personal abuse. 

Epic poetry found much favor at a time when it seemed as if every 
quality of the past could be renewed in a better condition by strenuous 
effort, and the seven names that we find in the list of Alexandrine 
writers of epics are Lycophron, Theocritus, Callimachus, Aratus, Ap- 
pollonius of Rhodes, Nicander, and Homer of Byzantium. Long 
before this time a species of epic poetry had existed in Greece, part 
of it continuing the Homeric poems, the cyclic epics as they were 
called. These have already been mentioned. Another division had 
treated specially the legends about Heracles ; at least Peisander, 640 
B.C., and Panyasis, who lived in the fifth century B.C., chose him for 
their subject, but it was only in Alexandria that they found admirers. 
Antimachus, whose elegies have been mentioned, also wrote a long 
Thebaid, of which we are told that it was not until after the twenty- 
fourth book that the heroes arrived in Thebes and the action began. 
Certainly, whatever its qualities might have been, it was not Homeric. 



III. 

We have seen the brief epic poems of Theocritus, but Apollonius 
Rhodius was not satisfied with such piecemeal performances. His 
epic was of considerable length, and ran through four books. Like 
many of his contemporaries, he was also famous for his learning and 
his knowledge of grammar as well as for his poetical achievements. 
He was at one time a pupil of Callimachus, but the two men quar- 
reled, and Apollonius betook himself to Rhodes, whence the title 
Rhodian, and finally he returned to Alexandria, where he received the 
usual reward of literary merit by being given charge of the library. 
His poem, the Argonautica, is on the whole a favorable specimen of 
this glacial period of Greek literature. It must have satisfied all the 
demands of the critics of that time : the narration recounts the events 
in the order of their occurrence ; Homer is conscientiously imitated, 
similes devised with ingenuity are inserted with the most laudable 
regularity ; the myths are many, and doubtless correctly given ; the 
geography is commendably accurate. Indeed, many occasional bits 
have a real charm of vividness and pathos, but the whole poem is a 
piece made to order by a learned, clever, and painstaking man, who 
tries to let attractive details serve instead of real emotion. He is 
overburdened by his responsibilities to the past. Yet later times by 
no means neglected him ; Virgil read him and took hints for his 
yEneid from the Argonautica as well as from the Iliad and the Odys- 



THE ARGON A UTICA OF APOLLONIUS RHODIUS. 



771 



sey. Callimachus detest- 
ed this work of his rival, 
whom he attacked with 
violence, and, to show how 
much better was a short 
epic, composed a Hecate, 
of which fragments re- 
main. Yet although Apol- 
lonius has suffered for liv- 
ing on a dim border- 
ground between two an- 
tiquities, his work is better 
than his reputation ; and 
although there is a tinge 
of weariness in the fidelity 
of some of the poem, it 
also contains passages full 
of real poetry. Undoubt- 
edly the importance of 
the epic was very clear to 
Virgil, and this author's 
Medea was full of influence 
upon the later poet's Dido. 
The modernness which we 
find in the Carthaginian 
queen is a quality that 
Virgil found already ex- 
isting in the Medea of 
Apollonius, especially in 
the passages that recount 
her love for Jason ; and 
numerous correspondences 
attest the use he made of 
this original. Unfortun- 
ately the English version 
of this poem encases the 
tender story in a suit of 
formal cut, so that the 
little touches are as stiff 
and solemn as possible, 
and the intimate quality 
of this charming part of 
the story is wholly lost. 



HHM 




77 2 THE POETRY.— {CONTINUED). 

It is barely to be distinguished from the severity of Oppian or 
Nicander, mentioned below. Thus this passage, which is full of 
grace and marked by a light touch in the original, is lamentably 
petrified in the following version : 

" Through the clear air unseen, relentless Love 
Came like the fly, that mads the youthful drove. 
Through valley, and through flood, it drives them wild, 
Scourge of the herd, the Breeze by rustics styl'd. 
Behind a column at the porch he stands, 
And bends th' unerring bow with cruel hands. 
A shaft untried he from the quiver drew, 
Parent of pangs that bosom never knew. 
With footsteps light the threshold then he passed, 
And round and round his wily glances cast. 
By Jason screen'd, he now contracts his size, 
And to the nerve th' indented shaft applies. 
He draws the feathered mischief to the head ; 
Home to Medea's heart the shaft is sped. 
Delirious trances all her powers subdue. 
Back from the lofty dome that urchin flew, 
A laugh malign his cruel mischief showed. 
Deep in the virgin's breast his arrow glowed. 
Like pent-up fires it raged ; and from that flame, 
At Jason darted, ardent flashes came. 
While soft oblivion o'er the spirit flows ; 
With fainting throbs her bosom sunk and rose. 
Sensations new the melting spirit filled ; 
Through all her veins delightful anguish thrilled. 
As when the toiling matron's frugal hand 
Has heaped the fuel round the smothered brand ; 
From works of wool her scanty means are drawn ; 
Her wakeful toil anticipates the dawn, 
And stores the hearth with lurking seeds of light, 
That industry may steal an hour from night. 
With gradual waste the fire in secret preys ; 
The billet moulders as it feeds the blaze ; 
Thus love, pernicious love, consum'd the maid, 
A fire unseen that on the bosom prey'd 
The various hue tumultuous passion speaks, 
And pale and red alternate seize the cheeks." 

This pompous formality, which puts solemnities and trivialities in 
the same dress, may well leave the reader cold, but a more literal ren- 
dering of this last comparison will serve to show that the aridity is 
not the fault of the poet : 

" As a poor working-woman, who lives on the hard toil of her hands, 
spreads dry twigs about a glowing ember in order to make a light in her 
room at night, and the fire starting up from the little spark consumes all the 
twigs at once ; so burned the fatal love in the young girl's heart ; her deli- 
cate cheeks grew red or pale in turns, in harmony with her thoughts." 

Elsewhere the arduous conflict in Medea's heart is told with a like 
grace. To be sure, the poem as a whole deserves no extravagant 



THE INFL UENCE OF ALEXANDRINE TOE TRY. 773 

praise, but though the flame of Greek poetry had nearly burned itself 
out, like the log in the working-woman's room, it occasionally flashed 
into new brief brilliancy over a few twigs and briars. Alexandria paid 
dearly for its position as the capital of the new civilization, but it has 
left a lasting mark on the literature of later times ; and what inspired 
the Roman poets, and was, through them, the model on which a very 
large part of modern literature was built up, is now synonymous, in 
elegant objurgation, with every form of literary vice and weakness. 
To call the present time Alexandrine is a favorite pastime of the 
pessimist. 

Another worker in this field was Rhianus, who chose for his subject 
the fate of the Messenians, an actual historical event, therein imitating 
Chcerilus, who, fifty years after the battle of Salamis, composed an 
epic poem on the Persian Wars that had no success. Mythology had 
too firm a hold on Greek literature to be expelled by modern history. 
The poem of Rhianus bears witness to the incessant experiments of 
the Alexandrines. 

Homer was not their only model, however; the antiquity of Hesiod, 
as well as his erudition, inspired other writers who doubtless felt the 
necessity of giving literary recognition to the new science that was 
growing up about them, and in one form or another demanding half 
of their attention. Thus it was that didactic poetry in epic form 
made its appearance, the most important examples that have survived 
being two poems of Aratus, of Soli, who flourished about 250 B.C. 
He, like all his fellow-bards, was a scholar as well as poet, and it was 
at the request of a Macedonian king that he composed his Phenomena, 
which was an abstract of astronomical science, and his Signs of the 
Weather. The scientific value of both would not do credit to a 
quack's almanac, yet there are a few passages that will please the 
student, even if they do not satisfy the astronomer. Such, for ex- 
ample, is that in which he warns his readers not to sail when the con- 
stellation of the Altar is visible : 

" For by day you will scarcely make any progress, for the days are short ; 
and in the night, overcome by terror, you will wait in vain for the dawn, 
which will not hasten to appear for all your cries. Then especially the 

assault of the winds is terrible Then the frost that comes from Zeus 

is fatal to the benumbed sailors." 

And he closes the description of the sailor's woes by saying that 
only a thin plank separates them from Hades, a sentiment that has 
found expression in Virgil, Juvenal, and Victor Hugo. Although 
now he leaves us cold, Aratus was enormously admired in antiquity. 
He was quoted by St. Paul in his speech before the Areopagus 



774 THE POETRY.— {CONTINUED). 

(Acts xvii. 28): " For in him we live, and move, and have our 
being; as certain also of your own poets have said, For we are also 
his offspring," a citation that gave Aratus a high place in the estima- 
tion of the early Fathers. The Romans also thought very highly of 
him ; he was translated by Cicero and Germanicus, while Virgil, Ovid, 
and Manilius imitated some of his best lines; but now his fame is as 
dead as the science that inspired him. 

ARATUS. 

PROGNOSTICS OF WEATHER. 

Be this the sign of wind ; with rolling sweep 

High swells the sea ; long roarings echo deep 

From billow-breaking rocks ; shores murmur shrill, 

Though calm from storm, and howls the topmost hill. 

The heron with unsteady motion flies, 

And shoreward hastes, with loud and piercing cries ; 

Borne o'er the deep, his flapping pinions sail, 

While air is ruffled by the rising gale, 

The coots, that wing through air serene their way, 

'Gainst coming winds condense their close array. 

The diving cormorants and wild-ducks stand, 

And shake their dripping pinions on the sand : 

And oft, a sudden cloud is seen to spread, 

With length'ning shadow, o'er the mountain's head. 

About a hundred years later, under Ptolemy V. or VI., Nicander of 
Colophon followed in the same path, and left two metrical efforts con- 
cerning the proper remedies against poison of beasts and drugs. 
Evidently we are near the end of the history of Greek poetry, when 
subjects like these could be chosen, for although in earlier times, 
in the lack of prose, some of the matters which were less adapted to 
metrical forms were necessarily written in poetry, we have here only 
an artificial attempt to revive the past in imitation of extinct models. 

NICANDER. 

THE SERPENT CERASTES. 

Now mays't thou learn the subtle horned snake, 

That steals upon thee, viperous in his make. 

But, while the viper's forehead maim'd appears, 

Horns, two or four, the bold Cerastes rears. 

Lean, dun of hue, the snake in sands is laid, 

Or haunts within the trench that wheels have made. 

Against thee straight on onward spires he rides, 

And, with long path, on trailing belly glides : 

But, sidelong-tottering, rolls his middle track, 

And wins his crooked way, and twines his scaly back: 

As, with long stern, some galley cleaves the tide, 

Wavering with gusts, and dips its diving side ; 

While, as the vessel cuts its channel'd way, 

Dash'd on the wind recoils the scatter'd spray. 



THE DECADENCE OF GREEK POETRY. 775 

When bites the serpent, straight the puncture round 
A callous tumour, like a nail, is found : 
And livid pustules, large as drops of rain, 
Spread round the bite ; of dull, and faintish stain ; 
Feeble the smart ; but, when nine suns have shone, 
The agonizing symptoms hasten on. 

The decadence was not confined to the contemporaries of Nicander ; 
in the reign of the early Ptolemy, Rhinthon of Tarentum had imported 
from his home the burlesque tragedies which treated the old myths of 
the great tragedians in the fashion of comedies, and he found many 
to follow him. Timon of Phlius, about 270 B.C., distinguished himself 
by his Silli, or satiric poems, wherewith he attacked the philosophy 
of Pyrrho. He also wrote epics and tragedies. In the main the 
chronicle of the later days is scarcely more than a list of proper names. 
Euphorion of Chalcis, about 230 B.C., was a busy writer who left 
behind him a reputation for obscurity, which, however, won for him 
the attention of the Romans. Later we hear of Archias of Antioch, 
Cicero's teacher, the poet of the Cimbrian and Macedonian wars ; 
Scymnus of Chios, who wrote a geography in iambics ; Agathyllus, 
Butas and Parthenius, a teacher of Virgil. It was through these men 
that the Alexandrine literature made its way into Rome. Babrias, 
the fabulist, is supposed to belong to this period just before the 
Christian era. After that date we find Marcellus conveying medical 
instruction in a poem of forty-two books, all of which are lost. Fate 
has been kinder to the two poems ascribed to Oppianus, one on fish and 
fishing and the other on the chase. Whether he was one or two per- 
sons is a question not decided, and for us unimportant. The poems — 
more than five thousand hexameter lines in all, present a curious 
medley of inaccurate science and fantastic statement, adorned with all 
the rhetorical devices that echo what had once been real poetry. By 
another accident a poetical geography of Dionysius Periegetes, in 
nearly twelve hundred hexameters, has come down to us. Yet these 
last sad gasps are serious and dignified by the side of the work of 
Nestor, who about 200 A.D. wrote an Iliad, omitting A in the first 
book, B in the second, and so on through the desecrated alphabet. 

IV. 

Yet the Greek literature, though near its death, was not destined to 
end, like a children's magazine, with puzzles and verbal tricks. Poetry 
was silent for a long time, and it seemed as if its painful gasping was 
wholly over, but in the fifth century of our era it showed again faint 
signs of life, and an attempt was made to galvanize the long-neglected 
measures and subjects. Nonnus of Pannopolis wrote a long epic, the 



77 6 THE POETRY.— {CONTINUED). 

Dionysiaca, or Deeds of Dionysus, in forty-eight books, which vie 
with one another in extravagance and incoherence, reminding one of 
the long epics of the Renaissance. It is not Dionysus alone that he 
sings ; the rape of Europa, the contest between Typhonus and Zeus, 
the story of Cadmus and the foundation of Thebes, and many 
other myths occupy the first six books, and not until the ninth is 
Dionysus born. 

What is curious in this epic is the extent to which all the tendencies 
of the later poetry are developed, the energy with which myths are 
accumulated and incidents are combined together, the unceasing 
descriptions of one scene after another, all illustrate the common 
quality of what may be called artificial literature, in which ornamenta- 
tion becomes the sole end of the composer. The whole poem is a 
huge mass of rococo work ; it glistens with every refinement that 
ingenuity could suggest, and all the ammunition of modern poets who 
have made use of mythological allusions seems stolen from this vast 
storehouse of rhetoric. The lines translated below will illustrate this 
artificiality, which simply exaggerates the widespread taste of the 
time. In its intensity, and in the curious bits of learning that adorn 
its pages, we may also find the poetical equivalent of the rhetorical 
prose that adorned the romances to be spoken of later. 

The following is a fair representative of the general tone of the 
poem. The nature of the incident is sufficiently characteristic, and 
the treatment will at once be recognized as that which has become 
familiar to readers of modern verse. 

A restless lover, we are told, was one day wandering among the 

broad-browed herds, when he saw approaching a proud, shy girl, led 

thither by the chase, and he at once began this song with a longing 

voice : 

" Ah ! would I might her quiver be 7 
Her cord, or quivering spear ! 
Her murderous javelin ! If but she 
Me in her hands might rear ! 
Or might I rather be the string 
She stretches for her bow ! 
That, drawing it, she might it bring 
Against those breasts of snow, 
That 'scape her maiden vest ; 

Yes, heifer ! Yes, bull ! 
That 'scape her maiden vest. 

May the gods grant me this great boon, 

That, heated from the chase, 

The proud young girl may come at noon 

To this retiring place, 

And in this fount's caressing waves 

Her beauties all set free 

May find the coolness that she craves 



THE DIONYSIACA OF NONNUS. 



777 



And I be there to see. 

Yes, heifer ! Yes, bull ! 
Her beauties all set free. 

Ah ! happier and more favored are 
Your arrows, Virgin, than your slave, 
The Shepherd Hymnos from afar 
Envies them what he may not have, 
Your touch, which js the birth of love, 
Your arrows, quiver, and your spear, 
You value him so far above 
He would be they, and thus be dear 
To you, and no more envy prove." 

But the nymph only scoffs at his impassioned wooing, and taunts 
him thus : 




PAN AND ECHO. 



" Oh ! Truly it beseems you, Pan, to play 
The tunes of Cytherea ! Did Pan woo 
Echo more skilfully than me you do ? 
When Daphnis sang, who hearkened to his lay ? 
His songs and pastorals but put to flight 
The nymph who hid herself in caves of night, 
And oft as Phoebus wooed, said Daphne nay ! " 

Then she threatens the swain with her lance, and he says 



Ah well ! I beg thee use thy cherished lance, 
To thy white hand I'd fall the sacrifice, 
And find therein, O cruel one ! my joy ; 
Nor do I seek to shun thy blade or spear, 



77 8 THE POETRY.— {CONTINUED). 

Nor the most instant death, since thus I might 
Escape th' unceasing pangs of hopeless love, 
That soul-devouring flame ! Let then thy spear 
Fly at my head, and strike no more my heart. 
And yet — why should I need another wound ? — 
But stab me if thou will'st once more, once more 
Let the earth cover me victim to thee 
And all-consuming love ! Death would be sweet 
If thou would'st end what Cypris has begun. 
Then spare my head ; thy arrows shall seek hers 
And find before them deep within my heart 
The fatal dart of love," etc., etc. 



After more pleading of this sort, the cold-hearted nymph takes him 
at his word and shoots her arrow straight into his neck, and thus cuts 
short his never-ending plaints. The poet then goes on to tell us that 
this cruel death fills with indignation all the mountain nymphs ; indeed 
universal nature did lament ; when he saw how hard-hearted the girl 
was, Eros cast away his bow ; Rhea, who never wept, and Echo, 
lamented his untimely end ; even the oak-trees remonstrated. His 
bull and his heifer also wept in sympathy and gave utterance to the 
following wail : 

" Our shepherd is slain, 
The beautiful youth 
We shall ne'er see again ! 
By a nymph without ruth 
He was slain ! he was slain ! 

He loved a young girl, 
For her he drew breath, 
He gave her his love, 
She gave him his death. 

In his very heart's blood 
She has moistened her dart ; 
With his heart's blood extinguished 
Love's flame in his heart. 

Our shepherd is slain ! 
The beautiful youth 
We shall ne'er see again ! 
By a nymph without ruth 
He was slain ! he was slain ! 

Rock, willow, and larch 

For his life did implore ; 

And the nymphs are all weeping 

Since he is no more. 

O, kill not our shepherd ! 
E'en the wolves and the bears 
Implored her to pity, 
Fierce lions shed tears. 




ARTEMIS. 
(Goddess of the Chase.) 



7 8o THE FOE TR Y—{ CONTINUED. ) 

Our shepherd is slain ! 
The beautiful youth 
We shall ne'er see again. 
By a nymph without ruth 
He was slain ! he was slain ! 

Farewell to the nymphs 

Of the forests and mountains ! 

Farewell to our pastures 

And cool, sparkling fountains ! 

Pan the shepherd, and Phcebus 
Cry, Perish the flute ! 
Is Nemesis sleeping ? 
Is Cypris still mute ? 

O, Eros, thy quiver 
Lay by, we implore ! 
And reed pipes be silent ! 
His tunes sound no more." 

As a final touch we are told that Apollo showed the cruel murder to 
Artemis, and even she, inexperienced in love as she was, wept for 
Hymnos and his unrequited affection. 

What Nonnus did on a great scale was attempted in miniature by 
Tryphiodorus, of uncertain date, who wrote a Sacking of Troy in less 
than seven hundred lines. Coluthus has left a Rape of Helen, con- 
taining a little under four hundred lines, devoid of real interest, like a 
sort of rhetorical exercise. Far more famous is the poem of Musaeus 
the grammarian, the Hero and Leander, which is remarkably free from 
the infection of the surrounding bombast and extravagance. The 
story of the love of Leander and Hero, of Leander's swimming the 
Hellespont to visit his mistress, and of his final death by drowning, 
had been already referred to by Virgil and Ovid as well as by other 
late Greek and Roman poets ; so that it is by no means impossible 
that there was in existence an earlier Alexandrine original which 
Musaeus made over into its present form. However that may be, he 
has left us a most charming poem, containing beautiful pictures of 
love, recounted with a grace that reminds the reader of good Greek 
work, so simple is it, so devoid of the marks of a decaying literature. 
No work of the Alexandrines has had greater direct influence upon 
modern literature, yet it made its way into it by false pretences, this 
later Musaeus being mistaken for the earlier poet of the same name, a 
semi-mythological personage of a very remote past. Until it was 
clearly known that this poem was a late production, it was imagined 
that even earlier than the Iliad and Odyssey had been sung the love 
of Hero and Leander, and that all these graces of a ripe civilization 
belonged to the very infancy of poetry. J. C. Scaliger, for instance, 



THE HERO AND LEANDER OF MUSjEUS. 



78. 



after expressing the utmost admiration for the grace and elegance of 
Musaeus, asserted that if that poet had written the Iliad and the 
Odyssey he would have done far better than Homer. Manutius, 
when attempting to reprint the whole of Greek literature, began with 
the Hero and Leander, being "desirous that Musaeus, the most 
ancient poet, should form a prelude to Aristotle and the other sages." 
The subject and the artistic treatment gave the poem an especial 
charm to men who were accustomed to find love their most inspiring 
subject, and who saw beneath the abundant conceits and elegances a 
genuine simplicity. Hence Clement Marot put it into French ; 
Boscan into Spanish ; and Chapman into English, after completing 
Marlowe's unfinished reproduction of the poem. Thus we see the 




PAN AND APOLLO. 



beginning of modern literature joining hands with the end of that of 
the ancients ; the kinship was strong, and had been maintained 
through the work of the Latin writers, whose full indebtedness to the 
Alexandrines can never be exactly known. 

V. 

Another poet of some importance was Kointos Smurnaios, orQuintus 
Smyrnaeus, as he is commonly called, who wrote an epic poem in four- 
teen books recounting what occurred between the death of Hector 



7^2 THE POETRY— {CONTINUED.) 

and the return of the Achaeans. It thus fills the gap between the 
Iliad and the Odyssey, but Quintus is rather a faithful student of 
Homer than a real Homer, although, on the other hand, he eschews 
the blemishes that one might expect to find in a possible contempo- 
rary of Nonnus. Indeed, one is struck by his clearness and correct- 
ness, and his happy avoidance of the exaggerations and absurdities of 
the later school. The poem is interesting, too, as a contribution to 
our knowledge of the old myths, for there is but little doubt that the 
author availed himself freely of the rich stores amassed by the Cyclic 
poets, and by the busy Alexandrine investigators. 

The natural tendency would be either entirely to overlook this pre- 
sumptuous epic, that pretends to fill the gap between the Iliad and 
the Odyssey, as if it were a mere hyphen, or else perversely to exag- 
gerate its merits ; but, examined fairly, it will be found to have cer- 
tain admirable qualities. One would certainly expect to find, for 
example, rather metaphors and similes taken from books than from 
observation, yet one of the most vivid and attractive traits of this 
poet is the fresh and lifelike nature of these images. Thus, he com- 
pares Penthesilea's pursuit of the retreating Greeks to the wave that 
follows a ship running before the wind, as only a man who had seen it 
would do : 

" And the Greeks fled, overwhelmed with terror, but she followed them, as 
the wave of the sounding sea follows the swift vessels when the eager wind 
fills their white sails, and the shores everywhere echo beneath the blows of 
the surf dashing the foam along the shore." 

At times, indeed, his comparisons run to the opposite quality in 
their freedom from conventional shackles, as when Ajax, in his delirium 
on being refused the weapons of Achilles, is thus described : 

" His heart was boiling within him, as boils a copper vessel before the 
flame of Hephaistos ; the water splutters and hisses over the fire, while the 
wood that a slave has gathered burns around it, and he is busy removing 
the bristles from the long-fattened pig." 

A devotee of literature would scorn ignoble pigs here, and again, 
when the Greeks have made their way into Troy, and the inhabitants 
are put to death — 

" like fat swine in the palace of a rich king who wishes to prepare a 
sumptuous repast for his people." 

Certainly an excessive devotion to literary refinements is not to be 
noticed here. An equal simplicity may be observed in a comparison 
that brings into relief the energy of Penthesilea : 







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FIGHT WITH THE AMAZONS. 
{Mausoleum Relief.') 



7^4 THE POETRY— {CONTINUED.) 

" She slew now one ; now, another. As when a young heifer rushing into 
a garden dripping with dew, desirous of the new spring herbage, escaped 
from her master, plunges here and there, destroying all the plants that have 
begun to sprout ; she eats some and tramples the others beneath her hoofs, 
so, rushing among the Greeks, the warlike maiden put some to death and 
turned the others to flight." 

Nor are these the only instances of the movement and energy of 
Quintus, that are certainly manifest even if the traditions of liter- 
ature, or rather its etiquette, be at times offended. The speeches of 
the various characters are often eloquent ; the personages are clearly 
distinguished, and often a scene is brought distinctly before the imag- 
ination of the reader. Moreover, it must be remembered that the 
test which is applied to the work of this little known poet is the hard- 
est in the world, for we are compelled to compare him with Homer 
and Virgil, and even this rigorous test he endures fairly well. 
This extract from the tenth book is perhaps as good an example as 
any of his excellence. It describes the grief of CEnone at the death 
of her husband, Paris, who had deserted her for Helen. When 
wounded, he had made his way to his early love, but she had 
driven him away violently ; but now she has heard of his death, 
and — 

" Alone, remote, CEnone, broken-hearted, shunning the company of other 
women, was extended on the earth, weeping and bemoaning the love of her 
husband. Often the snow scattered by the north winds covers the side of the 
mountains and the depths of the valleys ; then the huge mass gradually 
melts, in a pure stream, and while a thick layer covers the trees of the 
forest, an icy brook is yet visible, so CEnone was melting beneath the weight 
of her grief, thinking of the man she had loved ; and groaning deeply, she 
reproached herself thus : ' O foolish woman ! O, life of agony ! O, the 
futile love which I devoted to my husband ! Alas ! I had hoped to reach 
old age with him, and with him to die, after a happy union. The gods have 
decided differently ! Would to heaven that the cruel Fates had ended my 
life when Paris deserted me. But though he scorned me, I will die near 
him, for the light of day has no more sweetness for me." 

" And while she uttered these words, great" tears flowed from her eyes, in 
memory of her husband who had died ; she was wasting away, like wax be- 
fore the fire ; yet out of consideration for her father and attendant hand- 
maidens, she uttered no word until night had spread from the shores of the 
ocean over the whole world, bringing to mortals forgetfulness of their woes. 
Then, when her father and her attendants were sleeping, she opened the 
house-door and came forth, like a tempest, and her light feet supported her. 
.... Her legs did not weary under her, her feet with ever-fresh agility car- 
ried her along ; she ran, supported by Death and Love. She ran without a 
thought of the wild beasts that haunt the night, that formerly filled her with 
terror ; without a pang she climbed the rocks on the mountains, she crossed 
precipices, and threaded her way through ravines. The Moon, who saw her 
from the sky, remembering her love for fair Endymion, took pity on her sor- 



THE TROJAN WAR BY QUINT US SMYRNJEUS. 



78S 



row and lit the long path she had to follow. At last she made her way 
across the mountain to the spot where the nymphs were weeping around the 
body of Alexander [Paris]. Already the impetuous flames of the funeral 
fire surrounded it ; the shepherds from all quarters had gathered a vast 
quantity of trees to pay the last honours to their comrade and their prince ; 
and they were bitterly weeping. When she saw the body, she did not weep, 
although her grief was great, but hiding her fair face beneath her veil, she 
flung herself upon the pile, and amid the cries of the shepherds was con- 
sumed in company with her husband. The nymphs were seized with amaze- 
ment at seeing her seek her death near him, and said : " Certainly Paris was 
foolish to abandon his wife and to love a miserable woman who brought ruin 
to him and to the Trojans ! Unhappy one ! he took no thought of his 




PARIS AND CENONE. 



noble wife who loved him more than the light of day, despite the contempt 
and hatred he felt for her ! ' So spake the nymphs ; and the pair were con- 
sumed on the pile, forgetful of the approaching dawn." 



Certainly even in this ill-fitting garb the energy and simplicity of 
the original still survive ; and it is possible to see how the subject 
found even at a late date a man not wholly incapable of representing 
its beauty. Quintus had some qualities that distinguished him from 
the rest of what Shelley called the poets of his time — " a flock of 
mockbirds." His song was not very sweet, but it was also not purely 
mechanical. 



7 86 THE POETRY— {CONTINUED.) 

We need scarcely mourn the loss of the epics by those late bards 
who sang of recent historical events after the manner of Homer, such as 
Eusebius, who commemorated the war of the Romans with the Goths, 
and we may be resigned to the disappearance of the didactic poem in 
which Timotheus of Gaza gave instruction in natural history. These 
faint echoes, however, are not the only ones. Writers of occasional 
verse and of epigrams still survived, whose names even scarcely de- 
mand copying. About this time belong the poems inaccurately 
ascribed to Orpheus ; possibly some traces of the traditional relics of 
the past are to be found here, but these are but meager. The Expe- 
dition of the Argonauts is certainly of late origin ; the hymns are of 
a mystical and religious nature, and the poems on the qualities of 
stones read like early studies for the poetry of the middle ages. The 
hymns of Proclus are very similar to those ascribed to Orpheus. 

Later, in the Byzantine period, between Justinian and the capture 
of Constantinople in 1453 A.D., poetry languished with the extreme 
depression of public spirit. Christianity silenced even the memory of 
the old sources of inspiration ; the old metres were forgotten and even 
succeeded by rhyme. In the fourth century Gregory of Nazianzus 
wrote original verse, and to him is often ascribed the credit of putting 
together a tragedy on the sufferings of Christ out of lines culled 
mainly from Euripides. It seems much more likely, however, that 
this was done by someone else. The epigram remained popular even 
when everything else had vanished ; the most eminent names in the 
sixth century being those of Paulus Siluntiarius, who also wrote a 
metrical description of the church of St. Sophia and Agathias. Last 
of all we find the name of Joannes Tzetzes in the twelfth century, 
whose Iliaca repeats the myths about the Trojan war in three poems 
of nearly seventeen hundred lines in all. Another poem of between 
twelve and thirteen thousand lines is a mere congeries of myths and 
historical facts, strung together without judgment and written in the 
political verse, as it was called, wherein accent took the place of the 
former prosody. 

VI. 

Such is the dreary record of the decay of Greek poetry, from which 
it is pleasant to turn to the consideration of the most important 
monument of that literature that has come down to us, namely, the 
Anthology. We have already seen how short-breathed most of the 
later writers became, how in their hands the epic shrank into some- 
thing that was often of no greater magnitude than a long letter, and 
the last to perish of all the poetical forms was that of the brief 
epigram. That survived when longer effort was impossible, just as a 



THE GREEK ANTHOLOGY : THE VARIOUS COLLECTIONS. 7 8 7 

man may utter a witticism on his death-bed when he has strength for 
nothing else. As has been said above, the change in the fine arts 
corresponded to that in the arts, and the change from the production 
of works of sculpture to that of painting, and through that to work on 
gems, corresponded to the disintegrating evolution of literature to 
works of the smallest and most graceful kind. When the period of 
active production had disappeared, men began to collect memorials of 
the past, and in the second century before Christ this general interest 
in antiquity asserted itself in various ways. Inscriptions began to be 
copied and recorded, partly from antiquarian and partly from literary 
curiosity. The first to arrange these in order seems to have been 
Meleager, about 60 B.C., who, besides writing many charming epigrams, 
conceived the happy notion of collecting those of others in what he 
called a wreath, made of the flowers of Greek poetry. About one 
hundred years after Christ, Philip of Thessalonica prepared another 
collection to include what had been written since the days of Meleager, 
including much of his own work. Both of these anthologies, however, 
have been lost. The third editor was Agathias, in the second half of 
the sixth century, a man also well known as a jurist and a historian. 
Four centuries later Constantine Cephalas made another selection 
from what was left of the material amassed by his predecessors, 
probably omitting much that would be welcome now, to make place 
for later work, and this collection now forms our present anthology, 
or collection of flowers. Its vicissitudes did not end with the begin- 
ning of modern times. In the fourteenth century the monk Maximus 
Planudes felt it incumbent upon him to revise the work of Cephalas, 
to expurgate it by omission and correction, and this version was for a 
long time the only one known to modern readers. Fortunately one 
manuscript of the anthology of Cephalas had been preserved in the 
Palatine library at Heidelberg, where it was discovered by Saumaise — 
better known as Milton's antagonist, Salmasius — in 1606 A.D. It was 
long, however, before this collection saw the day. Saumaise could 
not get it published without a Latin translation, for the early interest 
in Greek had begun to wane, and he died before he could complete 
this task. Meanwhile the manuscript had been carried to the Vatican 
after the sack of Heidelberg in 1623 A.D. Thither Isaac Voss had 
sent a man to make a copy of the manuscript in order to anticipate 
his rival, but the death of Saumaise removed the necessity for this 
ingenious annoyance, and for a longtime nothing was done about it. 
In 1797 A.D., after being once copied twenty years earlier by the 
Abbe Spalletti, the manuscript was carried to Paris, whence it was 
restored to Heidelberg in 181 5 A.D. It was, however, between 1772 
and 1817 A.D., that the full text was published. 



7^8 THE POETRY— {CONTINUED.) 

The collection is most rich and valuable, and we may trace the 
growth of the epigram from the beginning of the Persian war until it 
expired in riddles and conceits with the decay of the Greek influence 
six centuries after Christ. We find in it — to mention them in their 
order — Christian epigrams from the monuments and statues dedicated 
to religion in Byzantium ; an account, written in hexameters, of the 
statues that stood in the gymnasium of that city ; the mural inscrip- 
tions from the temple of Apollonis in Cyzicus ; the prefaces of Me- 
leager, Philip, and Agathias to their anthologies ; a number of 
erotic epigrams; a collection of inscriptions composed irt honor 
of illustrious deeds or to explain various votive offerings ; epitaphs ; 
a dull collection of the poems of Saint Gregory the Theologian ; a 
number of miscellaneous epigrams form the next section, which is 
followed by another series that sing the brevity of life and the vanity 
of all things ; then come satirical epigrams ; a number composed by 
Straton that have to do with the perversion of love that was common 
among the Greeks, with others that are ascribed to Straton ; then a 
few in various irregular metres ; following these are riddles and 
oracles ; then a few miscellaneous ones ; and finally some included by 
Planudes that are not to be found in the collection of Cephalas. 

Obviously no one word can be found that shall define such a variety 
of poems of such different dates. Their uniform aim, graceful con- 
cision, is but a vague description of the quality that marks the best 
and is sought for in the worst, and was as much a condition of the 
epigram as are fourteen lines for the sonnet. Indeed, the modern 
sonnet is perhaps the best equivalent of the ancient epigram, so far 
as it is a common conventional form, current everywhere, as the recog- 
nized desire for the expression of almost every emotion. Yet brief as 
the sonnet is, it has been known to be at times too long for the mes- 
sage it had to convey ; and in its inflexibility there survives the trace 
of the Middle Ages which stand like a gulf between Greece and us. 
The Hellenic poets not only knew the privilege and necessity of 
brevity, they possessed the rarer power of stopping when they had 
said what they had to say. 

While the first place among the writers of the Anthology belongs 
to Meleager, for both the abundance and the rare charm of his epi- 
grams, there are many others, known to us only by a few poems here 
preserved, who well deserve their modest share of immortality. Yet 
the main impression that is left on the reader is by no means a per- 
sonal one. The reader may learn to recognize the exquisite grace of 
Meleager, or the touch of some of his rivals; but the most important 
thing about the collection is the vast amount of light that it throws 
on the Greek view of life, with all its directness, frankness, and gra- 



THE EPIGRAMMA TIC POEMS.— MODERN REPRESENTA TIVES. 789 

ciousness. Its charm is in great measure artistic simplicity of expres- 
sion, such as may be noticed elsewhere in the more ambitious work of 
Grecian literature. While there is possibly a certain monotony in the 
form of utterance, with its chastened directness that is yet compact 
of suggestiveness, the subjects cover every matter of interest for the 
cultivated people by and for whom these epigrams were written. Of 
vast questions there is no trace, partly because of the unsuitability of 
the epigram for the discussion of such matters, and partly, doubt- 
less, because of the general indifference of the later Hellenistic time 
for anything but the commonplaces of life and society. These are 
treated with unwearying assiduity, and naturally with varying success, 
yet the general standard is high, and the quality of literary execu- 
tion noticeably uniform. Even though there are many that fall short 
of the desired success, the aim is always manifest in the effort to 
attain a compact statement that shall yet be full of forcible sugges- 
tion, that shall, as painters say, " carry " well, with all the vivid bril- 
liancy of the gems which they resemble in their capacity for enduring 
workmanship without betraying it. 

What in modern poetry is most like them is the sonnet, as has 
been said above, and, like the sonnet, they refuse admittance to more 
than a single thought, which must be stated with absolute limpidity 
and graceful art. What the thought should be that was to be ex- 
pressed was almost a matter of indifference. Some of them are full 
of dignity, others again are not ; they are frank statements that would 
not find their way into modern literature, which inclines to hold it- 
self just outside of life in very much the same way that literary style 
differs from that of talk. And it is not meant merely that many of 
the erotic poems are unquotable, — even the grossest of these lack the 
earthy quality of many of the Latin ones that were carefully done 
by the Neo-Latin poets and so made their way into modern liter- 
ature, — but there is to be noticed the absence of any question whether 
such or such a thing needs to be written about. The author wrote it, 
and if he wrote it well he was satisfied. It is to be remembered, of 
course, that he did not have in mind any intention of composing 
pieces for an anthology ; he simply turned off a little poem for an 
inscription, to accompany a gift, or merely to be shown to one person 
and another. This unconsciousness of a great aim was then in part 
the result of circumstances, and it has secured for us an admirable 
vision of the current life and interests of a long period. We every- 
where notice the brevity which is not curtness, but chastened speech 
that is most gracious or most eloquent. And this quality, which 
is attained without perceptible effort, is one most characteristic 
of the Greeks, as sonority is of the Romans, or as joy in imitation 



79° THE POETRY— {CONTINUED.) 

of the classics in much of modern literature of not so many years 
ago. 

Certainly this reticence must have brought with it a delight that 
outweighs even that of the sound of one's own voice. What words, 
for instance, could add anything to this inscription? 

" No, I am not the tomb of Themistocles ; I am a Magnesian monument 
that bears witness to the jealousy and iniquity of the Greeks." 

It tells the fate of that great man, dying in exile, as no full de- 
scription could do. Here is another bit of silence : 

" The aged Nico lays wreaths on the tomb of the young Melita. Pluto, is 
that justice ? " 

When one recalls the definition of an epigram, thus translated by 
Mr. Symonds : 

" Two lines complete the epigram — or three. 
Write more ; you aim at epic poetry," 

it is easy to see how superior it is in its simplicity to the modern epi- 
gram with the pertness of its sting, which is often only to be deter- 
mined by italics and such typographical aid. These Greek poems 
bear a much stronger likeness to short Japanese poems and those of 
the Persian writers, of whom the best known is Omar Khayyam. 
Thus, of these two poems it would not be easy to say which was 
written in Persian and which in Greek. One is : 

" I have often sung it, and from the bottom of the tomb I shall call forth, 
' Drink, before you turn to dust like me.' " 

The other : 

" The day when I shall be a stranger to myself, and when my name shall 
be as a tale that is told, then make of my clay a wine-jar for use in the 
tavern." 

And it is not merely in these convivial appeals that the resem- 
blance is to be noticed. These from the Japanese : 

11 I did not wish to hear about the troubles of life, and so I fled far away 
to the distant hills, but even there I heard the painful cry of the wounded 
deer," 

and, 

" When I am sad, my feelings are like the closing year, and looking at the 
autumnal moon only increases my sorrow," 



THE HISTORICAL VALUE OF THE POEMS. 79 1 

have the same delicate reticence, the single touch, that characterizes 
not merely the best Greek work, but even that of the latest. 

The fullness of the collection throws much light on historical 
events, yet more interesting, one may say, are the many glimpses we 
get of the private life of the Greeks. These are to be found espe- 
cially in the votive inscriptions, although not in these alone, for 
continually we find traces of their thoughts and feelings as the 
stamp of what might be called their poetical wit. Of many again 
it is true that short as they are, they too often justify Rivarol's 
criticism of a couplet that was offered to his examination : " It's very 
good, but it's long-winded in places." 

VII. 

EXTRACTS FROM THE ANTHOLOGY. 

MELEAGER. 

Gentle Asclepias, with her eyes of blue, 
Reflects the azure calm of heaven above ; 
With her soft glances she is tempting you 
All to embark on the deep sea of love. 

(Anth. Pal. V. 156.) 

MELEAGER. 

On Heliodora's head the loveliest wreath 
Pales by the beauties that are seen beneath. 

(V. I43-) 

CRINAGORAS. 

What shall I call you first ? Unhappy one ! 
What next should you be called ? Unhappy one ! 
For you have suffered but no wrong have done. 
O charming woman, who are now no more ! 
Your face showed forth a perfect loveliness 
And all with perfect love your heart did bless, 
And Prote * rightly was the name you bore ; 
For sure such grace was never known before. 

(V. 108.) 

MELEAGER. 

The cup laughs with joy to be touched while she sips 

By the eloquent mouth of the fair Zenophil. 
Ah, happy the cup ! How I long for those lips 

That my whole heart and soul in a breath they may steal. 

(V. 171.) 
* The first. 



79 2 THE POETRY— {CONTINUED). 



PAUL THE SILENTIARY. 



No crown the rosebud needs, and thou, 
Thou need'st no 'broidered veils or gems to wear ; 
Gold adds no brightness to thy flowing hair, 
Pearls are less white than are thy neck and brow. 
From purple depths of th' Indian hyacinth gleams 
A sparkling fire, but thine eyes shine more bright 
Of thy soft eyes are stars that shine more bright. 
Thy fresh lips and thy graceful form that seems 
A goddess's, could not have greater might 
If Cytherea's girdle thou shouldst wear. 
To approach such loveliness I should not dare, 
Did not thy gentle eyes my heart invite 
The sweet hope that I read in thee to share ! 

(V. 270.) 



PAUL THE SILENTIARY. 

My lips delay to say to thee, Farewell ! 
And by thy side I linger silently. 
Must I then go ? Such parting were to me 
More dreadful than the darkest gloom of hell, 
For thou art as my very light of day ; 
But day is silent, and thy gentle voice 
More than a syren's song makes me rejoice, 
And round thy lips my dearest wishes play. 

(V. 241.) 



ANONYMOUS. 



Does the rose crown Dionysius, 
Or Dionysius crown the rose ? 

Ah yes ! The wearer crowns the crown, 
For that less beauty shows. 
(V. 142.) 



MELEAGER. 

Heliodora ! Love hath fashioned thee 

From out my very heart. 
Heliodora ! sweet-voiced ! unto me 

As my soul's soul thou art ! 
(V. I5S-) 



MELEAGER. 



By the god Pan of Arcady I vow, 
Sweet is thy singing, Zenophil, and thou 



EXTRACTS FROM THE ANTHOLOGY. 793 

Sweetly canst play the lyre. Where can I flee 
To escape thy loving charms besieging me ? 
Not for a moment will they let me rest. 
Now 'tis thy slender form in beauty drest, 
There 'tis thy voice, thy grace, what do I say 
It is thyself for whom I burn away. 

(V. 1 39-) 




PAN OF ARCADY. 



PAUL THE SILENTIARY. 



How sweet the smiles of Lais ! and how sweet 

Tears from her charming eyes ! 
But yesterday she leaned on me and wept 

Without a cause, and moaned. 
I kissed her, but her tears still fell like rain. 

" Why weepest thou ? " I prayed. 
" I feared lest thou shouldst leave me," murmured she, 
" For men are never true." 
(V. 250.) 



BY LEONIDAS OR ANTIPATES. 
Epitaph on Timon the Misanthrope. 



Utter no words, but pass me by 
In silence ; nor ask who I be ; 
Nor seek to know whose son was I. 
E'en silently approach not me. 
Go far around and come not nigh ! 
(VII. 316.) 



PHILODEMUS. 

Heliodora must thou shun 

Ere love for her is in thee begun ! 

Thus warned my soul for she knows well 

Love's pangs and tortures to foretell. 

Such were her words, but how can I, 
If love pursue, have strength to fly ? 
For she who boldly love reproves, 
Already Heliodora loves. 
(V. 24.) 



794 THE POETRY— [CONTINUED). 

PLATO. 

I, the proud Lais, to whose door once came 
Troops of young lovers, and whose toy was Greece, 
I consecrate to Cytherea now 
My mirror, since I can no longer see 
Myself reflected there as once I was, 
And would not see, alas ! as now I am. 

(VI. i.) 

MOCRUS OF BYZANTIUM. 

Nymphs, hamadryads, daughters of the river, 
Who ceaseless tread, with rosy feet, the valleys, 
Cherish Cleonymus who consecrated 
To you, beneath the pines, these beauteous statues ! 

(VI. 189.) 



CRINAGORAS. 

Roses of old oped with the opening year, 
But we our crimson chalices throw wide 
In winter, greeting thus thy birthday, near 
To that blest day when thou shalt be a bride. 
If us upon thy head thou deign to wear, 
O loveliest woman, then to be espied 
Were than the sun of spring to us more dear. 

(VI. 3450 

ASCLEPIADES. 

O wreaths ! remain here hanging on this door, 

Nor hasty shake your leaves, 
Your leaves that I have drenched with my tears, 

Such tears as lovers shed. 
But when you see the door softly unclose, 

Let fall your bitter dew 
Upon her head, that her light golden hair 

May thus drink in my tears ! 
(V. 1450 



LEONIDAS. 

One, crystal, and one silver brings, 

One, topazes of cost, 
For thy birthday fit offerings 

Their jewels rich they boast. 



But, Agrippina, take from me 
Two verses that I write. 

A humble gift I give to thee 
That envy cannot spite. 
(VI. 329.) 



EXTRACTS FROM THE ANTHOLOGY. 795 

ANTIPATES.* 

Not of Themistocles am I the tomb. 
No ! A Magnesian monument I am 
To the ungrateful rancour of the Greeks. 
(VII. 236.) 

MELEAGER.f 

That butterfly, my soul, if thou, Love, burn 
Too often with thy flame, O cruel one, 
Itself has wings to fly and ne'er return. 

(V. 570 

ERYEIUS. 

No more upon thy flute, Therimachus, 
Beside the lofty plane, thy shepherd's song 
Thou'lt tune ! Thy horned herds will hear no more 
Sweet reedy melodies, while 'neath the shade 
Of the broad oak thou liest. For thou art gone ! 
Slain by the deadly whirlwind's thunderblast, 
And homeward late the hurrying cows return, 
Harassed upon their path by driving sleet. 

(VII. 134.) 

SIMMIAS OF THEBES. 

Quietly o'er the tomb of Sophocles, 
Quietly, ivy, creep with tendrils green ; 
And, roses, ope your petals everywhere, 
While dewy shoots of grapevine peep between, 
Upon the wise and honeyed poet's grave, 
Whom muse and grace their richest treasures gave. 

(VII. 22.) 

THUCYDIDES. 

On Euripides. 

The great Euripides has for his tomb 
All Hellas, though the Macedonian earth 
Contains his ashes, since death found him there. 
Hellas of Hellas, Athens, was his home ; 
Hence came the verses which have charmed all hearts, 
And have won everv mouth to sing his praise. 

(VII. 45.) 

LEONIDAS OR MELEAGER. 

On Erinna.J 

The maiden ! The young singer ! Like a bee 
Stealing thy sweets the muses' flowers among. 
Erinna ! All too truly hast thou sung 
" Thou art a jealous god, O Death ! " Didst thou foresee 
How soon thou wert the bride of Death to be ? 

(VII. 13.) 

* Themistocles died at Magnesia in exile, 
f There is here a play on the word ipvxrj. 
% One of Erinna's poems began with the words : "I am in love with Death." 



79 6 



THE POETRY {CONTINUED). 




MELEAGER. . 

At the bride's gate the lotus flutes were sounding 
All yesterday, doors swinging to and fro ; 
This morn for Clearista all are weeping, 
Their song of Hymen changed to dirge of woe. 
Her bridegroom, Death ; she'll have no other wedding, 
For him she hath unclasped her virgin zone. 
The very torches for her bridal burning 
Shall light her trembling feet to Acheron. 

(VII. 182.) 

MELEAGER. 

Ah, bee ! why touchest thou Heliodora's cheek ? 
Feaster on flowers, why leav'st the cups of spring ? 
Wouldst have me know that she too feels of love 
The sweet, the unendurable, the bitter sting ? 
Thus say'st thou, loved of lovers ? Then begone ! 
Depart ! for long thy message have we known. 

(V. 163.) 

DIOSCORIDES. 

Eight sons sent Demenete forth to fight 
Against her country's foes ; and on one bier 
And in one grave the mother laid all eight. 
Then of her loss she said without a tear, 
" I bore them, Sparta, but thy sons they were ! " 

(VII. 4, 340 



CH^EREMON- 

Eubulos, son of Athenagoras, 
Thou wert outstript by all in length of days, 
But in thy measure of deserved praise, 
Indeed there is none who can thee surpass. 

(VII. 469.) 



MELEAGER. 

Heliodora, tears that pierce the earth, 

The last gift of my love, receive from me 

Beyond the grave ; tears shed most bitterly ! 

Alas ! upon thy tomb there is no dearth 

Of tears, that in past joy have had their birth, 

Poured in libation to the memory 

Of faithful love, thus consecrate to thee, 

To thee, though dead, my only thing of worth. 



Where is my flower that Hades plucked ? oh ! where ? 
An idle sacrifice to Acheron ! 
Dust now defiles its petals blooming fair, 
Hades hath stolen her, hath stolen her ! 
All mother Earth, I pray thee, gently bear 
Upon thy breast, her whom all must weep, now gone. 

(VII. 476.) 



EXTRACTS FROM THE ANTHOLOGY. 797 



PHILIP OF THESSALONICA. 



This tomb Archilochus, the sculptor, rears 
With piteous hands to Agathanor dead ; 
And not by steel was this stone chiseled, 
But worn by dropping of a father's tears. 
O stone ! rest lightly, that the dead may say, 
Truly my father's hand this stone did lay. 

(VII. 554.) 



ANTIPATER. 

Aretemias, when from the infernal bark 
Thou laid'st thy footprint on Cocytus' shore, 
Bearing in thy young arms thy newborn babe, 
The lovely Dorian girls, all pitiful 
At hearing of thy fate, would question thee, 
And thou through tears did utter these sad words 
Twin children have I brought into the world ; 
One with my husband Euphron did I leave, 
This other I bring with me to the dead. 
(VII. 464.) 



LEONIDAS OF ALEXANDRIA. 

Daemon of Argos in this tomb now lying 
Was he the brother of Deceoteles ? 
Of Deceoteles. Did echo sighing 
Repeat these words, or words of truth are these ? 
Swift comes the answer, Words of truth are these. 

(VII. 548.) 

MELEAGER. 

Lightly, allmother Earth, on yEsigenes rest, 
Lightly his foot on thee was ever pressed. 

(VII. 461.) 



ANYTUS. 

Antibia I mourn, the tender virgin ; 
Troops of young lovers to her father came 
To ask him to bestow her hand in marriage, 
Since of her wit and beauty great the fame. 
But cruel Pluto snatched beyond recall 
Her who united thus the hopes of all. 

(VII. 490.) 



ANONYMOUS. 

Hades the blossom of my youth hath gathered 
And hidden it 'neath this ancestral stone. 
In vain my birth, although of a good mother 
And of Etherius was I the son. 



79 8 



THE FOE TR Y— {CONTINUED). 



For thus forbid to reap the fruits of learning 
I languish on the shores of Acheron. 
O passer-by ! since yet among the living, 
Parent or child, thou must be either one, 
Therefore lament, this record when thou readest, 
For all my youth and learning so soon gone. 

(VII. 558.) 



ANONYMOUS. 

Inexorable Hades, pitiless ! 

The child Callaeschrus why didst tear from life ? 
A plaything in the household of thy wife, 
His place at home is filled with wretchedness. 

(VII. 483.) 







CHAPTER III.— THE PROSE. 

I. — The Wide Circle of Hellenistic Culture. The Abundance of Intellectual Interests 
in Alexandria and elsewhere. The Growth of Scholarship. The Spread of 
Scientific Study. Euclid. Archimedes. Astronomy. Ptolemy. II. — The Im- 
portance of this Greek Scientific Work. The Study of Medicine. Galen. His 
Vast Influence, like that of Ptolemy and Aristotle. Its Long Life and Final 
Overthrow, Possibly Portending an Altered View of All Things Greek. III. — 
The Grecian Influence in Rome. The Difference between the Greek and Roman 
Ideals. IV. — Polybius ; his History and its Importance. Extracts. V. — Other 
Historians : Diodorus Siculus, Dionysius of Halicarnassus, Strabo, Flavius 
Josephus. 

I. 

WE have found abundant traces of the influence of the new learning 
upon the poetry of Alexandria, and enough has been said to make 
it clear that this city was the headquarters of every form of intellec- 
tual interest. Greece itself had sunk into a dependent colony from 
which every form of leadership had departed. It was, moreover, an 
outlying region, remote from the meeting-place of Oriental and Greek 
thought, and the poverty of the country, due also to its distance from 
the great trading-places, prevented the accumulation of books, which 
henceforth were destined to exercise great influence on science and 
literature. The wealth of Macedonia nourished intellectual interests 
there. In Syria schools were founded, where rhetoric and philosophy 




VIEW OF PERGAMOS, FROM THE WEST. AFTER THE EXCAVATIONS OF ii 



found anew home, such as those of Antioch, Sidon, Ephesus, and 
Tarsus. More important was Pergamos, where there was a library 



800 THE PROSE. 

second only to that of Alexandria, to which it was afterwards added. 
The kings of this city, Attalus I., Ermenes II., and Attalus II., indeed 
were for about a century formidable rivals of the Egyptian city, but 
after them Pergamos sank into insignificance. The Isle of Rhodes, 
however, preserved its superiority down to a late period, till at least 
the second century after Christ. Yet Alexandria was the real home 
of learning, and the means of transmitting the treasures of Greece to 
posterity. 

It was not for poetasters alone that the library and museum of this 
city was of service. We have seen that most of these had other 
claims to distinction, and study of every sort was actively pursued by 
a busy band of investigators. They separated learning into seven 
branches, which, as the quadrivium and trivium, survived throughout 
the Dark Ages, and only in this century, one might say, such is the 
conservatism of educators, have they undergone serious modification. 
This long-lived division was thus composed : Grammar, Rhetoric, Dia- 
lectic or Logic, Arithmetic, Geometry, Astronomy, and Music. Gram- 
mar, the first of these, was what we should be inclined to call philol- 
ogy, and consisted of the preparation and explanation of texts. Cal- 
limachus, the poet, as has been mentioned, was an authority in this 
branch of learning. Zenodotus of Ephesus, his predecessor as libra- 
rian, was intrusted with the care of collecting and revising the whole 
body of Greek poetry. Two other men — Alexander the ^Etolian and 
Lycophron the Chalcidian — shared in the labor, and took the tragedies 
and comedies respectively, while Zenodotus had charge of the Homeric 
and other epic poems. A full list of all the grammarians of Alexan- 
dria whose names and performances have come down to us would read 
like a directory of that populous city, but among the most eminent 
may be mentioned Aristophanes of Byzantium, about 264 B.C., and 
Aristarchus of Samothrace, a century later. It would be hard to ex- 
aggerate our indebtedness to these men for their services in preparing 
the literature of Greece for future times. Living as they did while 
the means of information were still easy of access, they accumulated 
vast stores of material and abundant explanations. What Aristarchus 
did in fixing the Homeric text and by way of illustration and inter- 
pretation has been of especial importance to modern students. The 
proper methods of work being established by these eminent men, 
lexicons, commentaries, biographies, all the paraphernalia of thorough 
literary history, were prepared by their many followers. 

Nor was it literature alone that attracted their attention. The 
mythological learning we have seen reflected in the poetry of the 
Alexandrines, as, for example, in the lost poems of Callimachus. 
Apollodorus of Athens, part of whose work has escaped destruction, 



802 THE PROSE. 

collected a vast number of myths. Heraclitus, of uncertain date, 
wrote a book, On Incredible Things, which contains brief accounts of 
some of the most famous legends, which he seeks to explain on some 
unmiraculous hypothesis. Others were Parthenius of Nicaea, 80 B.C., 
who collected a number of legendary love-stories, and Heracleides of 
Pontus. 

While pure literature was thus losing its original characteristics, 
philosophy was fading into complete skepticism, but science, which 
had long been the mainspring of such life as survived in letters, was 
thriving in what was more immediately its own territory. So far as it 
depended on observation, it failed to accomplish any great work: for 
not only was this important method unknown, or nearly unknown, as 
Aristotle's practice, in spite of his excellent theory, clearly shows ; but 
the general preference of the Greeks — of which we have had abundant 
instances — for a priori reasoning to painful study and experiment was 
further encouraged by the philosophical opinion that the senses were 
untrustworthy guides. In the exact sciences it was different ; here 
neither observation nor the testimony of the senses was invoked, 
and the abstract truth could not be denied. Hence it was that we 
notice a marvelous growth in this branch of study. The early phil- 
osophers, it will be remembered, had framed many bold hypotheses 
about the universe which ascribed to number and form curious mysti- 
cal properties, but a more precise notion of some of the principles of 
scientific study had developed itself out of these crude beginnings. 
Geometry, for instance, which, it is said, had taken its rise among the 
Egyptians from the necessity of continual measurement of the lands 
overflowed and altered by the annual inundations of the Nile, after 
being carried to Greece by Thales, found many ardent students 
there ; indeed, it became an important groundwork of education. 
But it was in its old home, Egypt, that it secured a place as a science 
in the hands of Euclid, about 300 B.C. It is not to be thought that 
Euclid was the author of all the propositions that he collected in his 
famous Elements ; some were doubtless his, but his main merit lay in 
his selection and the arrangement of his compilation. For some time 
this now undoubted fact was denied, for it was imagined that Greek 
science, like Greek literature, sprang into existence fully formed, with- 
out previous growth, by sheer force of genius ; but this unwarrant- 
able assumption is now extinct, and without any diminution of 
Euclid's fame. 

While he also wrote treatises on Harmony, Optics, and Catoptrics, 
which have come down to us, other works of his have failed to reach 
us. The most valuable of what we have, is the Elements, and 
when it is borne in mind that, as De Morgan said of him, "the sacred 



PROGRESS OF SCIENTIFIC STUDIES. 803 

writers excepted, no Greek has been so much read or so variously- 
translated as Euclid," the importance of the scientific work done at 
Alexandria is not to be easily over-estimated. 

The Elements at once took the position that it now holds, becoming 
the text-book for Greek schools in Alexandria and in other centers of 
learning, such as Antioch, Damascus, and Edessa, the school of Nes- 
torian Christians. It reached Europe in an interesting way. The 
book soon attracted the attention of the conquering Arabs, who trans- 
lated it in the reign of Haroun al Raschid, 786-809 A.D., and carried 
it to Cordova, whence a copy was obtained by an Englishman in 1120. 
Other translations followed, but the study of geometry languished, 
owing to the slavish devotion to Aristotle's logic until the revival of 
learning. Not until the middle of the last century, however, did it 
come into common use as a school-book. 

In mechanics, Archimedes of Syracuse, about 287-212 B.C., easily 
held the highest position. Diophantus, of uncertain date, though 
possibly in the first half of the fourth century of our era, was the first 
Greek writer on algebra, a subject which was carried further by the 
Arabs. Apollonius, Eratosthenes, contemporaries of Archimedes, 
were famous geometricians. Among other famous mathematicians 
was Hypatia, who died A.D. 415, at the mature age of sixty-one, and 
not as a young girl, as she is represented in Kingsley's novel. Her 
father, Theon, also deserves mention. 

Astronomy grew meanwhile in the hands of Eudoxus, Aristarchus, 
Eratosthenes, and others. To Aristarchus of Samos, born between 281 
and 264 B.C., belongs the credit of framing the heliocentric theory, 
which then, as well as later, we are told, was regarded as an irreligious 
notion. The general movement of astronomical theory was away 
from this guess, which, in the absence of instruments and exact obser- 
vation, could not be proved ; and not until two hundred years later 
did Hipparchus actually establish astronomy as a science by inventing 
methods of calculation which enabled men to make sure predictions. 
He is supposed to have been the first to make a catalogue of all the 
stars, and apparently he invented trigonometry, which useful method 
he applied, however, to the geocentric theory. This theory was 
adopted and developed by Ptolemy, who lived in the second century 
of our era, and it became the universal explanation of astronomical 
questions until it was disproved by Copernicus about two hundred 
and fifty years ago. Ptolemy's great work on astronomy, in which he 
expounded this theory, was translated into Arabic in the ninth cen- 
tury, and reached Europe as one of the spoils of the Crusaders, being 
put into Latin about 1200 A.D. The original Greek did not follow 
until the fifteenth century, and was early printed. 



8o4 THE PROSE. 

All these instances, and the list is by no means complete, bring 
abundant testimony of the significance of the scientific movement at 
this time. Not all the good seed that was sown took root. We have 
seen that the heliocentric system of Aristarchus of Samos, although 
it was accepted and developed by Seleucus of Seleucia in Babylonia, 
miscarried and failed to attain currency against the views of Ptolemy. 
The geography of Ptolemy, moreover, was a text-book in European 
schools for fourteen centuries. Nor was it to the mistaken or incom- 
plete contributions alone that credit is due ; from that time forth it 
was known to students that the world was a sphere, and they under- 
stood what was meant by the poles, the axis of the earth, the equator, 
the arctic and antarctic circles, the solstice, etc., etc. Indeed it may 
be noticed that the constant use of the Greek language in modern 
times as the source of scientific terminology is in a way a recognition 
of the deserts of the Alexandrines and their contemporaries, who gave 
the names to their discoveries to which later investigators have been 
compelled to adapt the new nomenclature. Hence the traditions of 
the beginnings of exact science are preserved in its terminology, just 
as the growth of the sciences starting from observation, that was at 
this time somewhat neglected, bear proof of their separate history 
in the common names of objects. This is testified by the presence of 
Greek names in, for example, anatomical terms, although anatomy is 
a subject which made less advance among the Alexandrine Greeks 
than one might have expected in view of their untiring zeal in acquir- 
ing learning. It was, to be sure, studied at this time, but its free 
growth was impeded by the necessity of dissect- 
ing apes and other animals rather than human 
subjects — a fact due probably to the long sur- 
vival of the Greek reverence for the human body ; 
but such success as they attained — and it is very 
considerable — is indicated by the terminology, and 
later discoveries tell their history in the same way. 
The science of medicine was in fact established 
by Hippocrates, the contemporary of Pericles ; it 
»™^*A.m,e was in no wise discovered or created by him, for 

the history of Greek medicine, or rather of sur- 
gery, finds it already established — to be sure in great simplicity — in the 
Homeric poems. What Hippocrates did was to co-ordinate the 
results of long experience and study, to build up a tolerably complete 
edifice out of the material already provided by remoter generations. 
He brought new contributions to the common stock, it is true, but he 
created nothing, and medical science not at all. 

During many centuries a crude system of therapeutics had been 




THE ORIGIN OF MEDIC A I SCIENCE. 



805 




ASCLEPIUS. 



growing up, the origin of which was ascribed in popular tradition to 
Asclepius, who was said to have introduced the healing art into Greece 
from Egypt. Temples were dedicated to 
this son of Apollo, whither the sick would 
resort to receive advice through dreams and 
from the priests, who took care to preserve 
records. of approved remedies. These were 
also inscribed upon separate tablets in the 
temples, and were further disseminated 
among the populace by the Asclepiads, who 
established schools, notably at Cnidos and 
Cos, which last was in existence 600 B.C. 
There, too, Hippocrates received his early 
medical education. It was, moreover, in 
these schools that the Hippocratic oath was first formulated. Other 
contributions to early information on the subject came from the men 
in charge of gymnasiums, who naturally had acquired skill in treating 
the sprains, bruises, and fractures, as well as more complicated results 
of accidents and overwork. Hippocrates himself is alleged to have 
been a lineal descendant of Asclepius on his father's side, and on 
his mother's of Heracles, the inventor of baths, among other claims to 
respect ; possibly the fact that she was by profession a midwife may 
have had as much influence in determining his tastes as his divine 
descent. For many centuries he remained the greatest of physicians, 
and the work that he accomplished is the foundation of the present 
science. After his death, medicine knew the same fate as the 
rest of the intellectual work of the Greeks, and it was in Alex- 
andria, the new home of intelligence, that it woke up again to 
life. The study of anatomy began there under the direction of 
Herophilus, about 300 B.C., and of Erasistratus, 280 B.C., while 
the whole medical work of the Greeks culminated in Galen, who 
was born at Pergamos, 131 A.D. He was a most fertile writer, 
for he composed one hundred and twenty-five works on philosoph- 
ical, mathematical, grammatical, and legal subjects, and on medicine 
one hundred and thirty-one, of which last eighty-three have come 
down to us. He, too, profited by the anatomical studies of Alexan- 
dria, but the full value of this aid was much impaired by the decay of 
the zealous investigations established by the anatomists just men- 
tioned. After their death medical science became tainted with phil- 
osophy, and two schools, the Empirical and the Dogmatic, who really 
prolonged the controversy between the followers of Herophilus and 
Erasistratus concerning the merits of Hippocrates, devoted their time 
to discussion rather than to study. The Empirics maintained that 



806 THE PROSE. 

practice was sufficient for any physician, that groping among muscles 
and bones was pedantic waste of time, and their rivals held exactly 
opposite views, thus maintaining a quarrel which is eternal between 
men with regard to the proper use of scientific methods. As one 
result, direct anatomical investigation gradually disappeared ; the 
study was regarded as degrading, subjects became rare, Galen himself 
dissected apes rather than human bodies, vivisection was denounced 
as cruel by men who saw nothing wrong in gladiatorial combats, as it 
is now attacked by sportsmen when they are resting from the chase. 
But what was a more perturbing influence upon the merit of Galen's 
work was his devoted allegiance to the philosophy of Aristotle, but on 
the other hand this adherence to the Stagirite gave him for centu- 
ries an indisputable place alongside of that intellectual tyrant. Only 
since medicine has freed itself of alliance with philosophical theories 
has it really grown to maturity, yet, in spite of its theoretical defects, 
the practical merits of the Greek system accomplished a vast amount 
of good ; indeed, it may be said that the results of the work of the 
Alexandrines in medicine are second only to what they accomplished 
in grammatical study, and the terminology of anatomical science attests 
their conquests just as the names of towns in America indicate the 
race of those who founded them. Nor was it in these studies alone 
that their mark was left ; dietetics, pharmacy, and surgery made great 
advance, and Greek physicians made their way into remote regions. 
To have studied in Alexandria was in itself a warrant of knowledge 
and skill. Yet, of course, not all they taught still finds approval ; in 
pharmacy, for example, they recommended most detestable witches' 
broth, and compounded vile messes that flourished throughout the 
Middle Ages, and still survive to the delight of rustics ; but they at 
least made a beginning. 

Galen appears to have enjoyed far less fame while living than that 
which afterward gathered about his name ; for that matter, no one 
lifetime could have known such great celebrity, but his reputation for 
enormous learning was very great. He was regarded as a receptacle 
of the wisdom of that time in other matters, too, than medicine. Only 
after his death, however, did he acquire the position he so long held 
as the one great leader of medicine. The overthrow of his authority, 
as well as that of the Ptolemaic system — which were curiously near 
in time — and the diminution of Aristotle's once omnipotent sway, are 
interesting and suggestive facts in the history of thought, for it may 
be that they possibly forebode a similar reconstruction of men's opin- 
ions in other matters, when it shall be seen that the whole literary 
fabric of Greece, built up as it was on a form of rhetorical expression 
that owed its sonority to religious enthusiasm, must give way before 



MODERN REVERENCE FOR GREEK MODELS. 807 

simpler methods of statement. As it is at present, modern literature 
obviously rests on that of Greece, and the most admired models of 
that country were the natural development of emotional utterances 
that have now become mere literary traditions. Its poetry grew out 
of a form of religious feeling that is a thing wholly of the past, and the 
prose developed out of the artificial, complicated construction of the 
dithyramb ; its antitheses and balanced phrases pervaded the work of 
all the orators and prose-writers, carrying with it a general impression 
of the great value of mere rhetoric. In modern times the conditions 
are altered, and the unsatisfactoriness of the old inspiration may per- 
haps be seen in the dependence of literature on conventional models 
that are now authorities, but not truly inspiring sources, as they were 
in their own time. 

The solvent that has wrought the momentous change in the way 
of regarding the universe is science. It has altered the old way of 
regarding the world ; it destroyed the authority of Galen and Ptolemy 
and inflicted grievous blows on Aristotle ; since it has thus affected 
our knowledge of facts, it brings forth new lessons from the facts, 
and evokes different emotions, which demand other forms of expres- 
sion. In other words, the emotional, wondering way of regarding life 
is being superseded by the enormous collection of facts that science is 
amassing, and the phraseology that was used to express obsolescent 
emotion sits ill on modern ways of thought and feeling. When 
men's minds were filled with awe they spoke differently from men who 
are forever dispassionately seeking and finding explanations of all 
observed phenomena, — indeed, the mere habit of scientific statement 
cannot be without influence ; while the change of mental attitude 
must in time be as apparent in men's words as in their thoughts, and 
then Greek literature will doubtless retain its place as a perfectly nat- 
ural expression of great and important thoughts, but it will perhaps 
be no longer considered necessary to say a thing in a certain way be- 
cause the Greeks so said it. 

At present the worst thing about literature is that it is made up 
to too great an extent of literary methods. This vice began to 
make its appearance with the downfall of Hellenic independence, 
and, as Horace said, conquered Greece soon made captive conquering 
Rome. From Rome it has been bequeathed to Europe, and thence 
it has naturally found its way over the rest of the civilized world. 

III. 

That new capital of the world, Rome, attracted countless Greeks 
of various kinds, and the Greek language became a necessary part of 



808 THE PROSE. 

the education of every cultivated Roman. As we shall see later, that 
city became the home of educated Greeks who gave instruction in 
their own language, in rhetoric, and in philosophy. They swarmed 
thither in such numbers that the senate twice passed laws expelling 
them from the city as corrupters of the sterner Roman virtue. Indeed, 
the rigid Cato objected to Greek physicians, and sought to have his 
fellow-countrymen allowed to die in the old-fashioned way. In spite 
of this morbid patriotism, however, the superiority of the Greek 
literature and philosophy asserted itself and found admirers and fol- 
lowers in their new home. The language became a common medium 
for the cultivated classes, not only in Rome, but throughout the 
civilized world. The Greeks, who possessed all the flower of culture, 
did not need to study foreign tongues, and they appear not to have 
devoted themselves to acquiring them, any more than did the French 
in the last century when all people of education had to learn that 
language. Thus, not long after the Macedonian conquest, Berosus in 
Babylon, Menander in Tyre, and Manetho in Egypt, compiled the 
annals of their country from original sources, writing them in Greek 
for the use of Greeks. When medicine, philosophy, astronomy, and 
doubtless literature, made their way eastward, it was by means of 
translations into the various tongues ; and these translations, obviously 
enough, were not made by the Greeks themselves. In Rome, as was 
said above, Greek was universally known by all educated men. Nor 
was it merely the excellence of Greek learning and letters that gave 
this language so great importance. Ever since the Greek colonists 
had moved westward to Sicily and southern Italy their influence had 
been felt, and traces of it abound in early Italian history. The Greeks 
had given the Italians their alphabet, had taught them to read and to 
write, and the number of Greek words incorporated at an early date 
into the Latin shows how much the Italians were indebted to them 
for the beginnings of civilization. The Italian mythology was made 
over into a close imitation of that of Greece. 

The full extent of the dependence of the Romans will be made 
clear when we come to the study of their literature, where it will be 
seen how thoroughly their civilization drew its life from the smaller 
country. Here it is well, however, to show its effect upon the Greeks, 
who were only maintained in their very natural pride by their 
acknowledged superiority. No one of them looked upon the Romans 
as their intellectual equals ; they never studied the Latin language 
except so far as their business required, and the Latin literature they 
almost wholly ignored. This superiority to their conquerors in 
matters of art and literature fully made up to them for the lack of 
material power; they were able to despise the gross success of their 



THE LITERARY INTERESTS OF GREECE AND ROME. 809 

conquerors, and by their continual assertion of their own excellence 
they undoubtedly helped to preserve their authority, for the continual 
assertion of one's merits is the surest method of obtaining recognition. 
While the Greeks have not failed to receive the praise which is due 
to their marvelous performance, there is yet one thing of which at 
times sight has been lost, and that is how very nearly literature and 
art were the sole outlet for the energies of an active-minded people. 
With the Romans they were but a part of a large number of interests, 
some of which were directly hostile to an intellectual or artistic life. 
The meagre size of Greece, its lack of vast political ideals, its pro- 
vincialism in matters of statecraft, all tended to diminish the number 
of distracting interests, and enabled the attention of intelligent men 
to concentrate itself upon literature and art. It was in very much 
the same way that the sufferings of the Jews intensified their religious 
fervor ; while, on the other hand, the large ambitions and wide 
interests of the Romans left art and letters subordinate to the many 
conflicting claims of practical life. In both Greece and Rome, as 
elsewhere, enthusiasm expressed itself in literature and art, but in 
Greece these were more exclusively the outlets than in other countries. 
Hence we may be justified in reminding those who find their ideals of 
life in that land alone, that its undeniable merit was purchased at the 
cost of many things which also have their preciousness and importance, 
and that it is possible to pay too high a price for literary and artistic 
excellence, if these can be attained only with any sensible diminution 
of other interests, political, social, or scientific. The wider range of 
objects pursued may necessarily involve a change, which will seem 
ruinous to those who demand that the future, to be admirable, must 
repeat the past. All this, it should be said, is far from a denial of the 
deserts of the Greeks. 

IV. 

All these facts show how closely bound was Rome with Greece, 
and in the history of Polybius, a Greek, which he wrote in his own 
language, we may see the maturer Hellenic mind applied to the 
study of events after a fashion that the Romans could not then 
imitate. Polybius was born at Megalopolis, a city in Arcadia, about 
204 B.C. His father was one of the leading men in the Achaean 
League, that attempt at federation of Greek states which followed 
upon the feeble alliances that crumbled before the single-hearted 
power of Macedon. Unsatisfactory as the League was, it held out 
against that country and only succumbed to Rome. In 167 B.C. 
Polybius was carried to that city as a hostage, among a thousand 
of his countrymen, and remained in exile for seventeen years. Dur- 



810 THE PROSE. 

ing this long absence from home Polybius was able to observe the 
Roman civilization, and his intimacy with the sons of ^Emilius 
Paulus, and particularly with the one who was afterwards Scipio 
Africanus the younger, was of especial service : he accompanied him 
on his various campaigns, and later he was present with him at the 
conquest of Carthage. This experience taught Polybius how hopeless 
would be any resistance of the Achaeans to the invincible might of 
Rome, and he urged his fellow-countrymen to accept the inevitable 
and make the best terms they could. Like most good advice, how- 
ever, that which he gave was found to be sound only when the oppo- 
site had been followed. After the Achaeans had been defeated they 
acknowledged their error, and put up a statue to Polybius that bore 
an inscription saying that, if his words had been followed, Hellas would 
have been saved. Polybius was able to mitigate some of the severi- 
ties that the Romans had imposed upon their prostrate foes, and for 
this intervention he received new honors. This was about 145 B.C. y 
and the rest of his life, that is to say, until about 122 B.C., he appears 
to have devoted to the preparation and composition of his history. 
This history consisted of forty books and covered the period between 
220 and 146 B.C. The first date was that at which the history of 
Timaeus, since lost, came to an end. The other date was chosen as 
that when Corinth fell and the independence of Greece vanished. At 
first the history consisted of two distinct parts, afterwards combined 
into a single work. In the first of these he began with the Second 
Punic War, the Social War in Greece, and the war between Antiochus 
and Ptolemy Philopater in Asia, and ended with the overthrow of the 
Macedonian kingdom in 168 B.C. The second part continued the his- 
tory until the date above mentioned. It should be added that the 
whole was introduced by a brief sketch of Roman history between the 
capture of the city by the Gauls and the beginning of the second 
Punic War, with abundant references to other contemporary events. 

Polybius has suffered from the fact that he was not one of the 
classic Greek historians ; he has experienced a full share of the con- 
tempt that educated men have felt and expressed for everything 
Greek that belongs to the post-Athenian period, and has been a vic- 
tim of a blight as mysterious and unreasonable as social distinctions. 
Herodotus, Thucydides, and Xenophon are in the blue book ; Poly- 
bius lives beyond the recognized borders ; he is a social waif. This 
is, however, scarcely a distinction that can be acknowledged by a 
student, and besides the importance of the historian's statements, 
there is in his work a quality that demands attention and admiration : 
this is his conception of history as a branch of science. He certainly 
lacks the charm of Herodotus, the unrivaled dignity of Thucydides, 



EXTRACTS FROM POLYBIUS. »n 

and the graceful art of Xenophon, but the aim of his history, to 
point out, 

" in what manner, and through what kind of government, almost the whole 
habitable world, in less than fifty-three years, was reduced beneath the 
Roman yoke," 

clearly shows a wide comprehension of his task. He did not merely 
chronicle events ; he saw, what it is always difficult for a contempo- 
rary to see, their real universal significance and their relation to the 
world's progress. 

" Before this period," he says with regard to the date he had chosen for 
beginning, "the great transactions of the world were single, distinct, and 
unconnected, both in place and time ; while each proceeded from motives 
peculiar to itself, and was directed to its proper end. But from this time 
history assumes an entire and perfect body. The affairs of Italy and Africa 
were now conjoined with those of Asia and of Greece : and all moved to- 
gether towards one fixed and single point." 

He was then justified in boasting that he was the first to write a 
universal history. 

" There are many, indeed, who have written an account of particular wars: 
and among them, some perhaps have added a few coincident events. But 
no man, as far at least as I can learn, has ever yet employed his pains, in 
collecting all the great transactions of the world into one regular and 
consistent body ; remarking also the time of their commencement, the mo- 
tives to which they owed their birth, and the end to which they were directed. 
I therefore judged it to be a task that might prove highly useful to the world, 
to rescue from oblivion this great and most instructive act of Fortune. For 
in all the vast variety of disorders, struggles, changes, which the power of 
this deity introduces into human life, we shall find none equal to that long 
and desperate scene of contention, none worthy to be compared for their im- 
portance with those events which have happened in the present age." 

Certainly this is no exaggeration of the importance of the Punic 
Wars and of the overthrow of the Macedonian dominion, to say 
nothing of the subjection of Greece to this new power, and it is 
easy to see how deeply Polybius must have been influenced by the 
sight of Macedonia, recently the conqueror of the world, yielding in 
its turn to the Romans, who, 

" disdaining to confine their conquests within the limits of a few countries 
only, have forced almost the whole habitable world to pay submission to their 
laws : and have raised their empire to that vast height of power, which is so 
much the wonder of the present age, and which no future times can ever 
hope to exceed." 



812 THE PROSE. 

History became universal when events clearly modified the whole 
civilized world. 

Such then was the grand aim of Polybius, one that has been fol- 
lowed by those later historians who have endeavored to show the 
mutual connections of events in history with one another. Another 
question is the manner of the performance. As a narrator, Polybius 
often lacks the attractive qualities of his great predecessors, yet it 
cannot be denied that he has well observed his rule of stating the 
connection between the various incidents that he records. This 
becomes clear when we remember that he finds the principle animating 
and conducting these great changes, not in any great man, but in the 
Roman people themselves. There is no hero in his history, but it 
teaches us what Rome was and did in its early steps to greatness. 
Thus in speaking of the difference between Carthage, which employed 
mercenaries, and Rome with its army of citizens, he says: 

" Hence it happens, that the Romans, though at first defeated, are always 
able to renew the war ; and that the Carthaginian armies never are renewed 
without great difficulty. Add to this, that the Romans, fighting for their 
country and their children, never suffer their ardor to be slackened ; but 
persist with same steady spirit, till they become superior to their enemies." 

This spirit of analysis carries him further ; thus a few pages later 
we find him saying : 

" But among all the useful institutions that demonstrate the superior 
excellence of the Roman government, the most considerable perhaps is the 
opinion which the people are taught to hold concerning the gods : and that 
which other men regard as an object of disgrace appears in my judgment 
to be the very thing by which this republic chiefly is sustained. I mean 

Superstition The ancients therefore acted not absurdly, nor without 

good reason, when they inculcated the notions concerning the gods, and the 
belief of infernal punishments ; but much more those of the present age are 
to be charged with rashness and absurdity, in endeavouring to extirpate 
these opinions." 

For among the Greeks, he goes on to say, there is no honesty, and 
among the Romans no taint of crime, in the treatment of public 
moneys. 

This tendency of Polybius to see things in their full importance, 
and to describe them with a view to the instruction which they can 
give to his readers, is one that throws considerable light upon the 
intellectual interests of his time, for every historian, like every thinking 
man, is affected by the period in which he lives. Just as Sir Walter 
Scott's vivid and picturesque presentation of the Middle Ages, itself 
the result of the renewed interest in the past and the intensity given 
to national patriotism by the Napoleonic wars, made over the methods 



THE FUNCTIONS OF THE HISTORIAN. 813 

of historians who followed him and taught them something of his 
brilliancy in drawing the past ; and just as now a historian only dis- 
charges his duty when he explains the growth and coherence of events, 
so the method of Polybius shows him the product of a time when 
science ruled and helped to modify men's way of thinking. We find 
science not only in the books of geometers and astronomers, but also 
affecting the poets ; and in the rationalizing of Polybius, in his orderly 
arrangement and search for hidden causes, we may detect the con- 
temporary of the great grammarians, mathematicians, and astronomers. 
The vastness of his design indicates the new views that existed con- 
cerning the power of accumulated learning to interpret even the 
widest problems. The decay of the Greek notion of the importance 
of the city as the political unit is another token of the broader scope 
of intellectual interests in these later times. 

The work of Polybius does not have its sole value as an indication 
and expression of the cosmopolitanism which the Romans were 
unconsciously putting into practice from reasons of state, just as 
England has extended its power over the globe from a series of 
reasons that had been based on pounds and shillings ; nor is its only 
interest that of indicating the intellectual activity of the Greek mind. 
What we have to be additionally grateful for is that we have any 
history at all of this period. Polybius is the first to break the silence 
of a century and a half which is the long stretch of time between the 
death of Xenophon and his birth. There were, to be sure, plenty of 
historians of greater or less degree during that interval ; the names of 
more than one hundred have come down to us, but their names alone ; 
time has spared us practically nothing of their work. Of Polybius we 
have, to be sure, the recital of but the half-century after 219 B.C., but 
this is of great importance in the general dearth of information. 

Now, of all the precautions that have been mentioned, the first to which a com- 
mander should attend, is that of observing secresy. That neither the joy which 
springs from an unexpected prospect of success, nor yet the dread of a miscarriage ; 
that neither friendship nor affection may prevail upon him, to communicate his design 
to any persons, except those alone without whose assistance it cannot be carried into 
execution : and not even to these, till the time in which their services are severally 
required obliges him to disclose it. Nor is it necessary only, that the tongue be silent ; 
but much more, that the mind also make not any discovery. For it has often hap- 
pened, that men, who have carefully restrained themselves from speaking, have some- 
times by their countenance alone, and sometimes by their actions, very clearly mani- 
fested their designs. A second thing to be considered are the different routes, either 
by day or by night, and the manner of performing them, both upon land and sea. 
The third, and indeed the greatest object is, to know the differences of the times that 
depend upon the heavens ; and to be able to accommodate them to the execution of 
any design. Nor is the manner of executing any enterprize to be regarded as a 
point of small importance. For this alone has often made things practicable which 
appeared to be impossible ; and rendered others impracticable, which were easy to 
be performed. In the last place, great attention should be paid to signals and counter- 



8 14 THE PROSE. 

signals ; as well as to the choice of the persons, through whose means, and with whose 
assistance, the undertaking is to be accomplished. 

Among the things that are to be learned in this method, one of the most necessary 
is the investigation of the theory of the days and nights. If indeed the days and 
nights were at all times equal, there would be no need of study, in order to acquire a 
knowledge which would in that case be common and obvious to all. But since they 
are different, not only each from the other, but also from themselves, it is plainly a 
matter of great importance, to know the laws by which they are severally diminished 
or increased. For, unless he be acquainted with these differences, how shall a com- 
mander be able to measure with exactness the time of a concerted march, either by 
night or by day ? How can he be assured, without this knowledge, that he shall not 
either arrive too early, or too late ? It happens also upon such occasions, and indeed 
upon such alone, that the first of these mistakes is more dangerous than the other. 
For he who arrives too late, is only forced to abandon his design. Perceiving his 
error, while he is yet at a distance, he may return back again with safety. But he 
who comes before the appointed time, being discovered by the enemy upon his 
approach, not only fails in the intended enterprize, but is in danger also of suffering 
an entire defeat. It is time indeed, which principally governs in all human actions ; 
and most particularly in the affairs of war. A commander therefore should be per- 
fectly acquainted with the time of the summer and the winter solstice ; the equinoxes ; 
and the different degrees of the diminution or increase of the nights and days, as they 
fall between the equinoctial points. For this is the only method that can enable him 
to adjust his motions to the course of time, either by land or sea. 

Thus again King Philip, when he attempted to take Melite in the manner that has 
before been mentioned, was guilty of a double error. For not only the ladders which 
he carried were too short ; but he failed also with respect to the time. Instead of 
coming to the place in the middle of the night, as it had been concerted, when the 
people would have been all fast asleep, he began his march from Larissa at an early 
hour ; and, having entered the territory of the Melitasans, as it was neither safe for 
him to halt, lest the enemy should gain notice of his approach, nor possible to return 
back again without being perceived, he was compelled by necessity to advance, and 
arrived at the city before the inhabitants were yet gone to rest. But as he could not 
scale the walls, because the ladders were not proportioned to the height ; so neither 
was he able to enter through the gate, because the time of the attack prevented his 
friends that were within the city from favouring his entrance. At last therefore, 
having only provoked the rage of the inhabitants, and lost many of his men, he was 
forced to return back without accomplishing his purpose ; and instructed all mankind 
for the time to come, to be suspicious of his designs, and set themselves on their 
guard against him. 



After his death there occurs another period of silence, and indeed we 
may say that of the two centuries before the Christian era our informa- 
tion is far scantier than is that of two centuries earlier. Two hundred 
names, thus averaging one for each year, show the extent of our loss, 
but excepting the five books and the fragments of Polybius, the 
abridgment of the mythological and genealogical history of Apol- 
lodorus, and Sallust, Caesar, Diodorus Siculus, Dionysius of Halicar- 
nassus, and Livy, we have nothing. All of the works of these writers, 
with the single exception of Caesar, have been handed down to us in 
a mutilated condition, and the crumbs that we have received from so 
full a feast give us but an insufficient record of a momentous age. 

Diodorus Siculus, or the Sicilian — he was born at Agyrium, in 






THE EARLY HISTORIANS. 815 

Sicily — was a contemporary of Caesar and Augustus; his exact dates, 
however, are not known. He tells us that he spent thirty years pre- 
paring for the composition of his history by traveling in Europe and 
Asia, as well as in Egypt, and that Latin as well as Greek sources 
were open to him. His aim was a grand one : 

" Having diligently perused and examined the works of several authors, I 
determined to compose an entire history, from which the reader might reap 
much advantage, with little labour and pains." 

This he wrote in forty books, beginning with the Trojan War and 
ending with 60 B.C., the date of Caesar's consulship, a period of about 
eleven hundred years. The first six books contained the early his- 
tory of Asia and the Greeks ; the next eleven carried the story on to 
the death of Alexander the Great ; and the remainder narrated fur- 
ther events until Caesar's war against the Gauls. Of this work we 
have the first five books, recounting the early history of Egypt, Ethi- 
opia, Asia, and Greece, and books 11-20, from the beginning of the 
second Persian War to the death of Alexander, and but fragments of 
the rest. This work, which its author called a historical library, even 
in the defective state in which it reaches us thus covers a great deal 
of ground. It lacks, however, great interest, belonging as it does to 
a time when books were made by compilation from various authori- 
ties, with no marked discretion in the choice. Moreover, he has con- 
fused what was already obscure by a number of chronological inaccu- 
racies. It is cruel to be ungrateful for any light that can be thrown 
on Greek history, but that which Diodorus gives us has found any- 
thing but lavish praise. 

The early history of the Romans was written by Dionysius of Hali- 
carnassus, where he was born in the second quarter of the last century 
before Christ. He betook himself to Rome in 29 B.C., probably giv- 
ing instruction there in rhetoric, and preparing his history. He wrote 
a number of books on both subjects. Those on rhetoric are intelli- 
gent ; and his history, although his method ill bears the test of mod- 
ern scientific examination, contains a vast mass of information. Ob- 
viously, archaeology was then an unknown science, and the explana- 
tion of the past lay beyond the powers of any man, but the accumu- 
lation of material that he made has been found of service in later 
times. 

With these men should be mentioned Strabo, who lived from 
about 60 B.C. until about 24 A.D., and was thus a contemporary of 
Dionysius of Halicarnassus. His Description of the Earth, in seven- 
teen books, contains abundant historical facts, besides many interest- 
ing descriptions of places that the author had himself seen. It was 



816 THE PROSE. 

not a mere geography that he wrote, but rather a sort of manual of 
general information about the different regions he describes. 

Flavius Josephus, born about 37 A. D., is a marked instance of the cos- 
mopolitanism that was growing up with the increasing power of Rome. 
He was a Jew of distinguished descent who saw the invincibility of 
Rome, and wrote his histories for the purpose of commending the 
Jews to their conquerors. It would be unfair to explain this inten- 
tion on the part of the historian as a simple lack of patriotism. An 
acknowledgment of the power of Rome was at that time no more 
than an acknowledgment of the power of civilization. We have 
seen that city absorbing the intellectual activity of the Greeks, and 
that the Jews should seek to find a place in it was neither strange 
nor new. In Alexandria, ever since its foundation, they had begun 
the life they have since led of comparative political isolation within 
the state. They were then, as now, active in trade, and an element 
of great importance in Rome as well as elsewhere. That Josephus 
should have endeavored to set his fellow-religionists in a favorable 
light was perhaps the best service that he could have done them. His 
history of the Jewish War, which he first composed in his own lan- 
guage and then translated into Greek, was much admired in Rome, 
where the author was treated with great respect. Another book, on 
Jewish Antiquities, in twenty books, begins with the creation of the 
world and brings the record down to 66 A.D., when Nero was emperor. 
Here he made an especial effort to conciliate the Romans, speaking 
of the books of the Old Testament as nothing more than ancient his- 
tory, with no claim to divine authority. Yet he makes very clear 
the difference between Judaism and Paganism, in spite of his efforts 
to smooth them away. 

When Moses had thus addressed himself to God, he smote the sea with 
his rod, which parted asunder at the stroke, and receiving those waters into 
itself, left the ground dry, as a road, and place of flight for the Hebrews. 
Now when Moses saw this appearance of God, and that the sea went out of 
its own place, and left dry land, he went first of all into it, and bid the He- 
brews to follow him along that divine road, and to rejoice at the danger their 
enemies that followed them were in ; and gave thanks to God for this so 
surprising a deliverance which appeared from him. 

Now while these Hebrews made no stay, but went on earnestly, as led by 
God's presence with them, the Egyptians supposed at first that they were 
distracted, and were going rashly upon manifest destruction. But when 
they saw that they were gone a great way without any harm, and that no 
obstacle or difficulty fell in their journey, they made haste to pursue them, 
hoping that the sea would be calm for them also. They put their horse fore- 
most, and went down themselves into the sea. Now the Hebrews, while 
these were putting on their armour, and therein spending their time, were 
beforehand with them, and escaped them, and got first over to the land on 



EXTRACT FROM JOSEPH US. 



8.7 



the other side without any hurt. Whence the others were encouraged, and 
more courageously pursued them, as hoping no harm would come to them 
neither : but the Egyptians were not aware that they went into a road made 
for the Hebrews, and not for others ; that this road was made for the deliv- 
erance of those in danger, but not for those that were earnest to make use 
of it for the others' destruction. As soon, therefore, as ever the whole 
Egyptian army was within it, the sea flowed to its own place, and came down 
with a torrent raised by storms of wind, and encompassed the Egyptians. 
Showers of rain also came down from the sky, and dreadful thunders, and 
lightning, and flashes of fire. Thunderbolts also were darted upon them. 
Nor was there any thing which used to be sent by God upon men, as indica- 
tions of his wrath, which did not happen at this time, for a dark and dismal 
night oppressed them. And thus did all these men perish, so that there was 
not one man left to be a messenger'of this calamity to the rest of the Egyp- 
tians. But the Hebrews were not able to contain themselves for joy at their 
wonderful deliverance, and destruction of their enemies ; now indeed sup- 
posing themselves firmly delivered, when those that would have forced them 
into slavery were destroyed, and when they found they had God so evidently 
for their protector. And now these Hebrews having escaped the danger 
they were in, after this manner, and besides that, seeing their enemies pun- 
ished in such a way as is never recorded of any other men whomsoever, were 
all the night employed in singing of hymns and in mirth. Moses also com- 
posed a song unto God, containing his praises, and a thanksgiving for his 
kindness, in Hexameter verse. 

As for myself, I have delivered every part of this history as I found it in 
the sacred books. Nor let any one wonder at the strangeness of the narra- 
tion, if a way were discovered to those men of old time, who were free from 
the wickedness of the modern ages, whether it happened by the will of God, 
or whether it happened of its own accord ; while, for the sake of those that 
accompanied Alexander, king of Macedonia, who yet lived comparatively 
but a little while ago, the Pamphylian sea retired and afforded a pas- 
sage through itself, when they had no other way to go ; I mean, when it 
was the will of God to destroy the monarchy of the Persians. And this is 
confessed to be true by all that have written about the actions of Alexander. 
But as to these events, let every one determine as he pleases. 




CHAPTER IV.— PLUTARCH. 



I. — Plutarch. His Life and Work. 
Influence. II. — His Naturalness 
Morals. Extracts. 



His Method. His Attractive Simplicity. His 
and Impartiality. III. — Extracts. IV. — His 



PERHAPS the most important of the later historians is Plutarch, 
who did more than any other man toward making posterity 

acquainted with both Greeks and Romans. He was born at Chaeronia, 

in Bceotia, about the middle 
of the first century of our era. 
Like most ambitious young 
Greeks he found his way to 
Rome, the capital of the 
world, where he gave instruc- 
tion in philosophy and rhet- 
oric to audiences eager to 
absorb Greek culture. While 
in Italy he used only his own 
language, which was familiar 
to all cultivated people. Later 
he returned to his native city, 
where he held positions of 
honor, and he appears to have 
been also a priest of Apollo 
at Delphi. The work which 
has made him famous is his 
Lives of Eminent Greeks and 
Romans, which he composed 
probably after his return to 
Chaeronia. The date of his 
death is unknown. These 
biographies, or Parallel Lives, 
as he called them, are forty-six 
in number, and appear in the 

following order: i. Theseus and Romulus. 2. Lycurgus and Numa. 

3. Solon and Valerius Publicola. 4. Themistocles and Camillus. 

5. Pericles and Q. Fabius Maximus. 6. Alcibiades and Coriolanus. 




PLUTARCH. 



PLUTARCH'S LIVES AND THEIR INFLUENCE. 819 

7. Timoleon and Aemilius Paulus. 8. Pelopidas and Marcellus. 
9. Aristides and Cato the Elder. 10. Philopcemon and Flaminius. 
11. Pyrrhus and Marius. 12. Lycander and Sulla. 13. Cimon and 
Lucullus. 14. Nicias and Crassus. 15. Ermenes and Sertorius. 
16. Agesilaus and Pompeius. 17. Alexander and Caesar. 18. Pho- 
cion and Cato the Younger. 19. Agis and Cleomenes, and the two 
Gracchi, Tiberius and Caius. 20. Demosthenes and Cicero. 21. De- 
metrius Poliorketes and Marcus Antonius. 22. Dion and M. Junius 
Brutus. Lives of Artaxerxes Mnemon, Aratus, Galbo and Otho, and, 
in some editions, of Homer, follow these, although with no parallel 
order. The following biographies have been lost : Epaminondas, 
Scipio, Augustus, Tiberius. Caligula, Claudius, Nero, Vitellius, Hesiod, 
Pindar, Crates the Cynic, Da'iphantus, Aristomenes, and the poet 
Aratus. 

His aim was a modest one; in his Life of Alexander he acknowl- 
edged that he did not give the actions in full detail, and with a scrupu- 
lous exactness, but rather in a short summary, because he was writing 
not histories, but lives. 

" Nor is it," he goes on, " always in the most distinguished achievements 
that men's virtues or vices may be best discerned ; but very often an action 
of small note, a short saying, or a jest, shall distinguish a person's real char- 
acter more than the greatest sieges or the most important battles. There- 
fore, as painters in their portraits labour the likeness in the face, and par- 
ticularly about the eyes, in which the peculiar turn of mind most appears, 
and run over the rest with a more careless hand ; so we must be permitted 
to strike off the features of the soul, in order to give a real likeness of these 
great men, and leave to others the circumstantial detail of their labours and 
achievements." 

The faults which he enumerates have been detected by many read- 
ers ; and attention has been often called to his errors, especially in the 
Roman lives, and to the disorderly arrangement that is to be found 
in nearly alL Yet, granting these flaws, the existence of which he was 
the first to point out, it is yet undeniable that he succeeded in what 
he undertook to do, and this was to represent, so far as he could, the 
personal characteristics of the various leading men of Greece and 
Rome. The time in which he wrote was one of moral decay, and by 
his pictures of a nobler past he hoped to revive an interest in virtue 
and right living. So much he did not accomplish, for it was impossible 
for any series of biographies to avert the decadence of Roman civili- 
zation ; but the Lives have been of great importance in modern times, 
not only on account of the information which they have contained 
about the ancients, but also as direct stimulants to men who were 
seeking for good models. The conditions under which he wrote nat- 



820 PLUTARCH. 

urally modified his way of looking at the past, and to a contemporary 
of Nero it would seem that the one thing the world lacked was politi- 
cal virtue, hence Plutarch sets the portraits of wise rulers and leaders 
in such a light as shall best convey moral instruction. This he has 
done by presenting them as human beings, by recording their personal 
traits rather than the marches and countermarches of their campaigns, 
by giving us the information for which there is an eternal and insatia- 
ble hunger, that, namely, about the nature of men, not human nature 
in the abstract — the appetite for that is soon stayed — but as it has 
appeared in the past and appears to-day, not merely in emperors and 
generals, but in our fellow-citizens and next-door neighbors. Hence 
almost the only persons of antiquity whom we may be said to know 
are those who have been fortunate enough to have him for their 
biographer ; of the undistinguished citizens we know scarcely anything. 
He has filled a gallery with statues of illustrious men copied from the 
life. One result of this has been that we always think of the ancients 
as a collection of statues, our only conception of them is as doing some 
important thing ; we have no knowledge of anything else. Plutarch 
is by far the most valuable interpreter that we have between antiquity 
and modern times, and in these holds a position unshared by any 
classic or post-classic writer. Another result of the vividness of his 
representation of great men has been his authority at two distinct 
periods in modern history when individuality has made its appearance 
as a novel force. It is not a mere accident that Plutarch enjoyed a 
revival of fame at the time of the Renaissance, when egoism broke the 
monotonous bonds of the Middle Ages, and again in the last century 
when the modern hero entered poetry and fiction as the representative 
of the development of personality as a social and political force. 
Amyot's translation of Plutarch's Lives in 1559 — it appeared in 
English form, twenty years later, — gave the men of that gener- 
ation not a mere collection of rare facts, but new views of life. As 
Plutarch's best pupil, Montaigne, said, speaking of the studies suitable 
for a young man : " What profit shall he not reap, as to the business 
of men, by reading the lives of Plutarch ? But, withal, let my tutor 
remember to what end his instructions are principally directed, and 
that he does not so much imprint in his pupil's memory the date of 
the ruin of Carthage, as the manners of Hannibal and Scipio ; nor so 
much where Marcellus died, as why it was unworthy of his duty that 
he died there." He was certainly justified in saying that he never 
seriously settled himself to the reading of any book of solid learning 
but Plutarch and Seneca. Indeed Plutarch was a writer of the highest 
authority among Montaigne's contemporaries, as with Bacon and. all 
of the men of that day who were seeking to draw inspiration from 



PLUTARCH'S POPULARITY IN MODERN TIMES. 821 

antiquity. North's Plutarch inspired three of Shakspere's plays, — Ju- 
lius Caesar, Antony and Cleopatra, and Coriolanus, — and the book was 
doubtless the most important part of his classical education, as it was 
that of many generations of readers. Moreover, although Shakspere 
drew the suggestions of his plays from many different sources, he 
never followed Bandello or any Italian novelist with half the fidelity 
that he showed in constructing his Julius Caesar, for instance, on the 
very words of Plutarch. What higher proof could there be of the 
biographer's vividness and truth ? The list of the distinguished men 
who admired him is a long one : Racine, Bayle, Henri IV. were among 
the early ones in France ; Falkland, Clarendon, and Sydney, in Eng- 
land, drew lessons in courage and patriotism from his pages. While 
Plutarch never lost his popularity, we may notice a recrudescence of 
his authority in the latter half of the eighteenth century, when the 
lessons that were taught in his Lives found apt pupils among a gen- 
eration who were preparing for an outbreak against despotism. 
Rousseau, Franklin, and others took delight in the pictures of great 
men, and the influence of the book may be seen in the imitation of 
Plutarch's heroes by the distinguished personages of the time. The 
very name of the Society of the Cincinnati; the pseudonyms under 
which patriots conveyed their thoughts to the world, such as Gracchus 
and Publicola, as well as the countless references to his pages, make 
clear the extent of Plutarch's influence. 



II. 



The quality by means of which he moved his readers at these 
important periods is that of drawing the men as they were. In this 
art he is a master, and it is the more conspicuous on account of his 
dim vision of great movements in histor)'. Of vast political complica- 
tions he has nothing to say ; he knows only the men who were con- 
spicuous in them, and these he brings before us with the utmost dis- 
tinctness. His favorite method is to use anecdotes to illustrate their 
prominent qualities. They follow one another, as in an old man's talk, 
securing their long literary life by means of the earnestness that went 
to their collection and utterance, and not at all to any attempt at 
literary grace. Who that reads Plutarch thinks of him as a Greek 
writer? He is a perfect cosmopolitan, at home everywhere and in 
every language. He has the right of citizenship in French, English, 
and German ; he never impresses us as a translated Greek. And this 
position, in which he has no rival, he owes to the simplicity which is 
much rarer and nobler than literary art. 



822 PLUTARCH. 

"I began the Lives," he said, "for the benefit of others, and I continue 
them for my own," and by pleasing himself, with absolute disregard of con- 
ventional laws, he has pleased whole generations of men. " For it does not 
necessarily follow," he says in the Life of Pericles, " that if a piece of work 
please for its gracefulness, therefore he that wrought it deserves our admira- 
tion. . . . But virtue, by the bare statement of its actions, can so affect men's 
minds as to create at once both admiration of the things done and desire to 
imitate them. . . . And so," he goes on, "we have thought fit to spend our 
time and pains in writing of the lives of famous persons." 

Indeed, while every other way of regarding the world is subject to 
change, and literary fashions, political ideals, historical proportions, 
vary at different times, ethical laws remain as firmly fixed as physical 
laws, the eternal conditions of human existence ; and Plutarch, by 
regarding them, while yet avoiding preaching, has won his place among 
the immortals. 

The moral aim of his biographical work was doubtless clearer to 
himself and to his contemporaries than it is to us. The parallelism of 
the several Greek and Roman lives, with the final comparison between 
the members of each pair, was quite as important to him as anything 
else ; and probably those to whom the question of the relative superi- 
ority of Greece or Rome was an open one found a delight which we 
do not share in weighing the newer against the older civilization and in 
reading Plutarch's thoughtful summing-up. He kept the former glory 
of Greece in honor, and paid the highest tribute possible to Rome by 
treating the two nations with equal respect. The difficulty of drawing 
the comparisons was great, and Plutarch has naturally not escaped the 
charge of partiality to his own countrymen, but he has escaped con- 
viction by the disagreement of the jury. It would not be so easy to 
panel a new one, for we care less for the proportional merits of his 
heroes than for the humanity in each one, and perhaps we are free to 
admire him more than did the ancients, because we are not under the 
necessity of making up our minds on what is after all a side issue. It 
is only the abundance of human nature that gives books immortal life, 
and Plutarch's fame has grown with the approach of indifference to 
what he perhaps thought was the important part of his work. His 
greatest merit was in good part an unconscious one, as is often the 
case with the best books. At least, when we speak of Plutarch's 
Lives, we mean the biographical part, and not the weighing of two 
men in a balance : those pages we are apt to leave unread, like the 
moral of a fable. 

What we do admire is the way in which the petty traits that he 
lovingly records illuminate the great ones, as they do in life. Not all 
gossip has this power, any more than long accumulation of details is 
realism in the composition of a novel. Everything depends on the 



EXTRACT FROM PLUTARCH'S TIMOLEON. 823 

artist, and Plutarch gives us the air of the great men he writes about, — 
their nature — by his wise tact, just as a great painter can draw a striking 
likeness with two or three charcoal lines. He narrates trifles, but he 
does not narrate them trivially ; he sees the men he writes about, and 
he puts them before us without any preconceived notion of what the 
dignity of the biographer's art demands; and the result is that one of 
the latest of the Greeks maintains the accustomed supremacy of his 
country by setting the standard of biography for future times. 



III. 



Although Greece had in his time produced several persons of extraor- 
dinary worth, and much renowned for their achievements, such as Timotheus 
and Agesilaus and Pelopidas and (Timoleon's chief model) Epaminondas, 
yet the lustre of their best actions was obscured by a degree of violence and 
labor, insomuch that some of them were matter of blame and of repentance ; 
whereas there is not any one act of Timoleon's, setting aside the necessity 
he was placed under in reference to his brother, to which, as Timseus observes, 
we may not fitly apply that exclamation of Sophocles : 

O gods ! what Venus, or what grace divine, 
Did here with human workmanship combine ? 

For as the poetry of Antimachus and the painting of Dionysius, the artists 
of Colophon, though full of force and vigor, yet appeared to be strained and 
elaborate in comparison with the pictures of Nicomachus and the verses 
of Homer, which, besides their general strength and beauty, have the peculiar 
charm of seeming to have been executed with perfect ease and readiness ; 
so the expeditions and acts of Epaminondas or Agesilaus, that were full of 
toil and effort, when compared with the easy and natural as well as noble and 
glorious achievements of Timoleon, compel our fair and unbiassed judgment 
to pronounce the latter not indeed the effect of fortune, but the success of 
fortunate merit. Though he himself indeed ascribed that success to the sole 
favor of fortune ; and both in the letters which he wrote to his friends at 
Corinth, and in the speeches he made to the people of Syracuse, he would 
say that he was thankful unto God, who, designing to save Sicily, was pleased 
to honor him with the name and title of the deliverance he vouchsafed it. 
And having built a chapel in his house, he there sacrificed to Good Hap, as 
a deity that had favored him, and devoted the house itself to the Sacred 
Genius ; it being a house which the Syracusans had selected for him, as a 
special reward and monument of his brave exploits, granting him together 
with it the most agreeable and beautiful piece of land in the whole country, 
where he kept his residence for the most part, and enjoyed a private life with 
his wife and children, who came to him from Corinth. For he returned thither 
no more, unwilling to be concerned in the broils and tumults of Greece, or to 
expose himself to public envy (the fatal mischief which great commanders 
continually run into, from the insatiable appetite for honors and authority) ; 
but wisely chose to spend the remainder of his days in Sicily, and there par- 
take of the blessings he himself had procured, the greatest of which was to 



824 PLUTARCH. 

behold so many cities flourish, and so many thousands of people live happy 
through his means. 

As, however, not only, as Simonides says, " on every lark must grow a 
crest," but also in every democracy there must spring up a false accuser ; 
so was it at Syracuse : two of their popular spokesmen, Laphystius and 
Demsenetus by name, fell to slander Timoleon. The former of whom requir- 
ing him to put in sureties that he would answer to an indictment that would 
be brought against him, Timoleon would not suffer the citizens, who were 
incensed at this demand, to oppose it or hinder the proceeding, since he of 
his own accord had been, he said, at all that trouble, and run so many danger- 
ous risks for this very end and purpose, that every one who wished to try 
matters by law should freely have recourse to it. And when Demsenetus, in 
full audience of the people, laid several things to his charge which had been 
done while he was general, he made no other reply to him, but only said he 
was much indebted to the gods for granting the request he had so often 
made them, namely, that he might live to see the Syracusans enjoy that 
liberty of speech which they now seemed to be masters of. Timoleon, there- 
fore, having by confession of all done the greatest and the noblest things of 
any Greek of his age, and alone distinguished himself in those actions to 
which their orators and philosophers, in their harangues and panegyrics at 
their solemn national assemblies, used to exhort and incite the Greeks, and 
being withdrawn beforehand by happy fortune, unspotted and without blood, 
from the calamities of civil war, in which ancient Greece was soon after 
involved ; having also given full proof, as of his sage conduct and manly 
courage to the barbarians and tyrants, so of his justice and gentleness to the 
Greeks, and his friends in general ; having raised, too, the greater part of 
those trophies he won in battle, without any tears shed or any mourning worn 
by the citizens either of Syracuse or Corinth, and within less than eight years' 
space delivered Sicily from its inveterate grievances and intestine distempers, 
and given it up free to the native inhabitants, began, as he was now growing 
old, to find his eyes fail, and awhile after became perfectly blind. Not that 
he had done anything himself which might occasion this defect, or was 
deprived of his sight by any outrage of fortune ; it seems rather to have been 
some inbred and hereditary weakness that was founded in natural causes, 
which by length of time came to discover itself. For it is said that several 
of his kindred and family were subject to the like gradual decay, and lost all 
use of their eyes, as he did, in their declining years. Athanis the historian 
tells us that even during the war against Hippo and Mamercus, while he 
was in camp at Mylae, there appeared a white speck within his eye, from 
whence all could foresee the deprivation that was coming on him ; this, how- 
ever, did not hinder him then from continuing the siege and prosecuting 
the war till he got both tyrants into his power ; but upon his coming back 
to Syracuse, he presently resigned the authority of sole commander, and 
besought the citizens to excuse him from any further service, since things 
were already brought to so fair an issue. Nor is it so much to be wondered 
that he himself should bear the misfortune without any marks of trouble ; 
but the respect and gratitude which the Syracusans showed him when he was 
entirely blind may justly deserve our admiration. They used to go them- 
selves to visit him in troops, and brought all the strangers that travelled 
through their country to his house and manor, that they also might have the 
pleasure to see their noble benefactor ; making it the great matter of their joy 
and exultation that when, after so many brave and happy exploits, he might 



EXTRACT FROM PLUTARCH'S TIMOLEON. 825 

have returned with triumph into Greece, he should disregard all the glorious 
preparations that were made to receive him, and choose rather to stay here 
and end his days among them. Of the various things decreed and done in 
honor of Timoleon, I consider one most signal testimony to have been the 
vote which they passed, that, whenever they should be at war with any foreign 
nation, they should make use of none but a Corinthian general. The method, 
also, of their proceeding in council, was a noble demonstration of the same 
deference for his person. For, determining matters of less consequence 
themselves, they always called him to advise in the more difficult cases, and 
such as were of greater moment. He was, on these occasions, carried through 
the market-place in a litter, and brought in, sitting, into the theatre, where the 
people with one voice saluted him by his name ; and then, after returning 
the courtesy, and pausing for a time, till the noise of their gratulations and 
blessings began to cease, he heard the business in debate, and delivered his 
opinion. This being confirmed by a general suffrage, his servants went back 
with the litter through the midst of the assembly, the people waiting on him 
out with acclamations and applauses, and then returning to consider other 
public matters which they could despatch in his absence. Being thus cher- 
ished in his old age, with all the respect and tenderness due to a common 
father, he was seized with a very slight indisposition, which, however, was 
sufficient, with the aid of time, to put a period to his life. There was an 
allotment then of certain days given, within the space of which the Syra- 
cusans were to provide whatever should be necessary for his burial, and all 
the neighboring country people and strangers were to make their appearance 
in a body ; so that the funeral pomp was set out with great splendor and 
magnificence in all other respects, and the bier, decked with ornaments and 
trophies, was borne by a select body of young men over that ground where 
the palace and castle of Dionysius stood before they were demolished by 
Timoleon. There attended on the solemnity several thousands of men and 
women, all crowned with flowers, and arrayed in fresh and clean attire, which 
make it look like the procession of a public festival ; while the language of 
all, and their tears mingling with their praise and benediction of the dead 
Timoleon, manifestly showed that it was not any superficial honor or com- 
manded homage which they paid him, but the testimony of a just sorrow for 
his death, and the expression of true affection. The bier at length being 
placed upon the pile of wood that was kindled to consume his corpse, Deme- 
trius, one of their loudest criers, proceeded to read a proclamation, to the 
following purpose : " The people of Syracuse has made a special decree 
to inter Timoleon, the son of Timodemus, the Corinthian, at the common 
expense of two hundred minas, and to honor his memory forever, by the 
establishment of annual prizes to be competed for in music, and horse-races, 
and all sorts of bodily exercise ; and this because he suppressed the tyrants, 
overthrew the barbarians, replenished the principal cities, that were desolate, 
with new inhabitants, and then restored the Sicilian Greeks to the privilege 
of living by their own laws." Besides this, they made a tomb for him in 
the market-place, which they afterwards built round with colonnades, and 
attached to it places of exercise for the young men, and gave to it the name 
of the Timoleonteum. And keeping to that form and order of civil policy 
and observing those laws and constitutions which he left them, they lived 
themselves a long time in great prosperity. 



826 



PLUTARCH. 



IV. 



Besides his Lives, Plutarch left many writings which are conveniently 
put together under the title of Morals. The subjects that he treats 
in these essays are manifold, and the essays themselves are not all of 
the same importance. Some appear to be notes of lectures in which 
trifles are discussed, others again are thoughtful dissertations on the 
most serious problems of life. Throughout, Plutarch's interest in 
moral questions is continually manifest, and there is nothing more 
charming than his attitude toward the world as it appears on almost 
every page. When we think of the condition of the ancient world at 
this time, as we shall find it pictured by Juvenal and other Roman 
writers, we are struck by Plutarch's innocence and simplicity ; we seem 
to have found a writer of the Golden Age, not of literature, to be sure, 
but of morals. He seems wrapped up against the corruption that sur- 
rounded him in his knowledge of the past from which he continually 
draws lessons of uprightness and honesty. The old mythology is re- 
ferred to by him as a storehouse of moral lessons ; he brings instruction 
from all the philosophical systems, especially from his master, Plato ; 
and he continually refers to the teachings to be drawn from the study 
of ancient history. So marked is the moral tendency of these writings 
that some have thought that Plutarch must have been a Christian in 
disguise, or at least have had knowledge of Christian writings. It is, 
however, an unfounded assumption ; what is fairer is to see in his work 
one of the many bits of evidence that go to show the general moral 
reaction against the widespread corruption of the time. This feeling, 
which was one of the antecedent causes as well as a most powerful 
ally of Christianity, was evoked in the mind of every thoughtful man by 
the sight of the collapse of paganism, and the only hope for humanity 
seemed to lie in a reinforcement of the moral teachings of the past, 
whence a universal religion might be drawn by combining the various 
elements of truth from all available sources. And Plutarch only anti- 
cipated the early Fathers of the Church in the prominence he gave to 
Plato when they saw in Greek philosophy a revelation of divine truth. 
If for nothing else, the moral writings of Plutarch would be valuable 
as indications of the last struggles of paganism to raise itself to the 
highest level, and of the interest in ethical questions which could not 
fail to make the lessons of Christianity acceptable. They prove that 
there was a generally felt need of a loftier teaching, that the world was 
ready for the reception of a new code of morals. We shall find some 
of his Roman contemporaries bringing forward abundant evidence of 
the crying need of a new dispensation, but it is in these times that 






PLUTARCH'S MORAL ESSAYS. 827 

those who escape the infection are most concerned about the state of 
affairs. This is natural — otherwise, to be sure, it would not happen — 
it is when our house is burning that we are most interested about the 
means of extinguishing fire. 

The long study of ethical questions by the various schools of philo- 
sophy had differed as to the measures to be applied, but they had 
agreed in seeking a cure. Indeed, since the days of Socrates, phil- 
osophy had grown more ethical as the times grew worse, and the old 
religion faded out, and dejection and despair were the alternatives 
of indifference and recklessness. The old world was practically 
moribund. 

Now, if truth be a ray of the divinity, as Plato says it is, and the source of 
all the good that derives upon either gods or men, then certainly the flatterer 
must be looked upon as a public enemy to all the gods, and especially to 
Apoilo ; for he always acts counter to that celebrated oracle of his, Know 
thyself, endeavoring to make every man his own cheat, by keeping him 
ignorant of the good and ill qualities that are in him ; whereupon the good 
never arrive at perfection, and the ill grow incorrigible. 

Did flattery, indeed, as most other misfortunes do, generally or altogether 
wait on the debauched and ignoble part of mankind, the mischief were of 
less consequence, and might admit of an easier prevention. But, as worms 
breed most in sweet and tender woods, so usually the most obliging, the 
most brave and generous tempers readiliest receive and longest entertain 
the flattering insect that hangs and grows upon them. And since, to use 
Simonides' expression, it is not for persons of a narrow fortune, but for 
gentlemen of estates, to keep a good stable of horses ; so never saw we flat- 
tery the attendant of the poor, the inglorious and inconsiderable plebeian, 
but of the grandees of the world, the distemper and bane of great families 
and affairs, the plague in kings' chambers, and the ruin of their kingdoms. 
Therefore it is a business of no small importance, and one which requires no 
ordinary circumspection, so to be able to know a flatterer in every shape he 
assumes, that the counterfeit resemblance some time or other bring not true 
friendship itself into suspicion and disrepute. For parasites — like lice, which 
desert a dying man, whose palled and vapid blood can feed them no longer — 
never intermix in dry and insipid business where there is nothing to be got ; 
but prey upon a noble quarry, the ministers of state and potentates of the 
earth, and afterwards lousily shirk off if the greatness of their fortune chance 
to leave them. But it will not be wisdom in us to stay till such fatal junctures, 
and then try the experiment, which will not only be useless, but dangerous 
and hurtful ; for it is a deplorable thing for a man to find himself then des- 
titute of friends when he most wants them and has no opportunity either of 
exchanging his false and faithless friend for a fast and honest one. And 
therefore we should rather try our friend, as we do our money, whether or 
not he be passable and current, before we need him. For it is not enough 
to discover the cheat to our cost, but we must so understand the flatterer, 
that he put no cheat upon us ; otherwise we should act like those who must 
needs take poison to know its strength, and foolishly hazard their lives to 
inform their judgment. And as we cannot approve of this carelessness, so 
neither can we of that too scrupulous humor of those who, taking the measures 



828 PLUTARCH. 

of true friendship only from the bare honesty and usefulness of the man, 
immediately suspect a pleasant and easy conversation for a cheat. For a 
friend is not a dull tasteless thing, nor does the decorum of friendship consist 
in sourness and austerity of temper, but its very port and gravity is soft and 
amiable, — 

Where Love and all the Graces do reside. 
For it is not only a comfort to the afflicted, 

To enjoy the courtesy of his kindest friend, 

as Euripides speaks ; but friendship extends itself to both fortunes, as well 
brightens and adorns prosperity as allays the sorrows that attend adversity. 
And as Evenus used to say that fire makes the best sauce, so friendship, 
wherewith God has seasoned the circumstances of our mortality, gives a relish 
to every condition, renders them all easy, sweet, and agreeable enough. And 
indeed, did not the laws of friendship admit of a little pleasantry and good 
humor, why should the parasite insinuate himself under that disguise? And 
yet he, as counterfeit gold imitates the brightness and lustre of the true, 
always puts on the easiness and freedom of a friend, is always pleasant and 
obliging, and ready to comply with the humor of his company. And there- 
fore it is no way reasonable either, to look upon every just character that is 
given us as a piece of flattery ; for certainly a due and seasonable commenda- 
tion is as much the duty of one friend to another as a pertinent and serious 
reprehension ; nay, indeed, a sour querulous temper is perfectly repugnant 
to the laws of friendship and conversation ; whereas a man takes a chiding 
patiently from a friend who is as ready to praise his virtues as to animadvert 
upon his vices, willingly persuading himself that mere necessity obliged him 
to reprimand, whom kindness had first moved to commend. 

But what is at length in death, that is so grievous and troublesome ? For 
I know not how it comes to pass that, when it is so familiar and as it were 
related to us, it should seem so terrible. How can it be rational to wonder 
if that cleaves asunder which is divisible, if that melts whose nature is lique- 
faction, if that burns which is combustible, and so, by a parity of reason, if 
that perisheth which by nature is perishable ! For when is it that death is 
not in us ! For, as Heraclitus saith, it is the same thing to be dead and 
alive, asleep and awake, a young man and decrepit ; for these alternately are 
changed one into another. For as a potter can form the shape of an animal 
out of his clay and then as easily deface it, and can repeat this backwards 
and forwards as often as he pleaseth, so Nature too out of the same materials 
fashioned first our grandfathers, next our fathers, then us, and in process of 
time will engender others, and again others upon these. For as the flood of 
our generation glides on without any intermission and will never stop, so in 
.the other direction the stream of our corruption flows eternally on, whether 
it be called Acheron or Cocytus by the poets. So that the same cause which 
first showed us the light of the sun carries us down to infernal darkness. 
And in my mind, the air which encompasseth us seems to be a lively image 
of the thing ; for it brings on the vicissitudes of night and day, life and death, 
sleeping and waking. For this cause it is that life is called a fatal debt, 
which our fathers contracted and we are bound to pay ; which is to be done 
calmly and without any complaint, when the creditor demands it ; and by 
this means we shall show ourselves men of sedate passions. And I believe 
Nature, knowing the confusion and shortness of our life, hath industriously 
concealed the end of it from us, this making for our advantage. For if we 



EXTRACT FROM PLUTARCH'S ESSAYS. 829 

were sensible of it beforehand, some would pine away with untimely sorrow, 
and would die before their death came. For she saw the woes of this life, 
and with what a torrent of cares it is overflowed — which if thou didst under- 
take to number, thou wouldst grow angry with it, and confirm that opinion 
which hath a vogue amongst some, that death is more desirable than life. 

And did we in like manner but take an impartial survey of those troubles, 
lapses, and infirmities incident to our nature, we should find we stood in no 
need of a friend to praise and extol our virtues, but of one rather that would 
chide and reprimand us for our vices. For first, there are but few who will 
venture to deal thus roundly and impartially with their friends, and fewer 
yet who know the art of it, men generally mistaking railing and ill language 
for a decent and friendly reproof. And then a chiding, like any other physic, 
if ill-timed, racks and torments you to no purpose, and works in a manner 
the same effect with pain that flattery does with pleasure. For an unseason- 
able reprehension may be equally mischievous with an unseasonable com- 
mendation, and force your friend to throw himself upon the flatterer ; like 
water which, leaving the too precipitous and rugged hills, rolls down upon 
the humble valleys below. And therefore we ought to qualify and allay the 
sharpness of our reproofs with a due temper of candor and moderation, — as 
we would soften light which is too powerful for a distempered eye, — lest our 
friends, being plagued and ranted upon every trivial occasion, should at last 
fly to the flatterer's shade for their ease and quiet. For all vice, Philopappus, 
is to be corrected by an intermediate virtue, and not by its contrary extreme, 
as some do who, to shake off that sheepish bashfulness which hangs upon 
their natures, learn to be impudent; to lay aside their country breeding, 
endeavor to be comical ; to avoid the imputation of softness and cowardice, 
turn bullies ; out of an abhorrence of superstition, commence atheists ; and 
rather than be reputed fools, play the knave ; forcing their inclinations, like 
a crooked stick, to the opposite extreme, for want of skill to set them straight. 
But it is highly rude to endeavor to avoid the suspicion of flattery by only 
being insignificantly troublesome, and it argues an ungenteel, unconversable 
temper in a man to show his just abhorrency of mean and servile ends in his 
friendship only by a sour and disagreeable behavior ; like the freedman in 
the comedy, who would needs persuade himself that his railing accusation 
fell within the limits of that freedom in discourse which every one had right 
to with his equals. Since, therefore, it is absurd to incur the suspicion of a 
flatterer by an over-obliging and obsequious humor, and as absurd, on the 
other hand, in endeavoring to decline it by an immoderate latitude in our 
apprehensions, to lose the enjoyments and salutary admonitions of a friendly 
conversation, and since the measures of what is just and proper in this, as in 
other things, are to be taken from decency and moderation ; the nature of 
the argument seems to require me to conclude it with a discourse upon this 
subject. 



CHAPTER V.— LUCIAN. 

— Lucian, the Satirist. The First of the Moderns, More Greek than the Greeks of 
his Time. His Life. II. — His Onslaughts upon the Moribund Religion. His 
Dialogues. III. — The Broad Burlesque which he sometimes Employs against 
Gods, Philosophers, and Men of Letters. IV. — His Later Fame. His Notion of 
Hades. His Treatment of Gross Superstitions. Alexander the Medium. Various 
Writings of his. V. — His Wit, Comparison between it and the Same Quality as 
Exhibited by Others. His Denunciation of Science. His Exhibition of the 
General Condition of the Greek Man of Letters in those Times. 



I. 

WHILE Plutarch thus presents us a picture of what was best in the 
old religion and early society, and drew from them lessons that 
should counteract the corruption of his day, Lucian, on the other 
hand, broke with the past, derided its religion, scorned its philosophy, 
denounced his contemporaries as well, with no occult purpose of 
favoring any sect, but merely to show the age its own rottenness. 
Plutarch fought wrongdoing with good advice and good examples from 
early history: Lucian's weapons were ridicule and satire. Plutarch 
has been well called the last of the ancients, and Lucian the first of 
the moderns. Yet, true as this statement is, Lucian still shows many 
of the qualities of an ancient in the artistic completeness of his work, 
the lightness and certainty of his touch, and in his freedom from deep 
imprecations. He says what he has to say without sullen wrath, and, 
having said it, he stops. 

Lucian's possession of this classic quality is the more striking in 
view of the fact that he was not a Greek. He was born at Samorata, 
near Antioch, at an uncertain date in the second century of our era, 
120 A.D., or 140 A.D., and, like Socrates, began to prepare himself to 
be a sculptor. But, if we may believe the account that he gives in 
one of his writings, he broke the piece of marble on which he was at 
work, an accident for which he was promptly punished, and in a dream 
Science appeared to him, exhibiting to him the rewards that awaited 
the successful sophist, and these persuaded him to devote himself to 
this profession. He studied at home, and practiced for some time at 
Antioch ; then he traveled, like the itinerant lecturers of the present 
day, through foreign lands, declaiming and writing his own compo- 
sitions. He appears to have passed through Asia Minor, Greece, 



LUCIAN' S ATTACK ON THE OLD RELIGION. 831 

and Gaul, and everywhere to have been successful. His audiences 
demanded of these wandering sophists the slightest intellectual 
food. Just as now, in these days of science, diluted information of 
familiar facts, with a number of photographic views, gives delight for 
an hour, so then literary jugglery was deemed a fascinating amuse- 
ment, and audiences applauded mock praise of a fly, and similarly 
ingenious parodies. Lucian after leaving Gaul, which was a most 
fruitful territory for those who lived by this exercise of their wits, 
visited Rome, and finally, when about forty years old, returned to 
Greece and established himself at Athens. Then he determined to 
abandon an occupation which had probably brought him a compe- 
tence as well as supplied him with abundant material for satire, and 
from this time he devoted himself to literature. Later, when an old 
man, he was reduced to poverty and compelled to fill a minor office 
in an Egyptian court of law. He died at an advanced age. 

II. 

The cleverest of Lucian's satires are those directed against the 
moribund mythology. He lived in a period of gross superstition, 
when paganism had revived for a last struggle against decay, and the 
old traditions joined hands with all sorts of novel extravagances. 
Lucian set his face against both. His attack upon the old Greek 
mythology was especially ingenious. He wrote a number of short 
dialogues in which the absurdities of the old beliefs were exposed 
without passion, but merely as obvious facts that possibly had been 
overlooked, though when once stated they could not be denied. The 
poets had drawn pictures of greater or less length for centuries from 
the abundant legendary history, and he might have defended himself 
from attack by appealing to these familiar precedents. Writing them 
in prose could not certainly be regarded as blasphemy, and even 
serious persons who might have been pained would have found it hard 
to put their ringer on the offensive passages. This is, after all the 
secret of his power ; he puts things before his readers exactly as they 
were recorded, and if his statement is destructive, it is because the 
facts are unworthy of admiration. Lucian simply records the myth ; 
his irony is concealed, and the sting of the attack lies in the absurdi- 
ties that poets have long hidden under a cloud of fine language. As 
to the form that he chose, he explains it as a combination devised by 
himself, of comedy and dialogue. Comedy, he says, was wholly devoted 
to the services of Dionysus, it used to march to the sound of the 
flute, and ridiculed the friends of the dialogue, calling them dreamers, 
chasers of wild geese, etc., with no other aim than amusement and 



8 3 2 



LUCIAN. 



denunciation. Thus, as in the Clouds of Aristophanes, it represented 
them floating in the air, or carefully measuring the leap of a flea, to 
signify that the philosophers lived in the clouds. Dialogue was em- 
ployed solely for grave discussion, and philosophical controversies on 
nature and virtue, so that between dialogue and comedy there existed 
complete discord. He, however, had ventured to combine the two, 
although there seems to be no common ground between them. As to 
stealing, there is none, he boasts in his works. " From whom could 
I steal ? " he asks. 

It will be noticed however, that while he invented this new form, 

he is so far from being a creator, that 

he merely combined two forms already 

existing. 

Here is an example of this part of his 

work : 

Alexander and Diogenes. 

Diogenes. How is this, Alexander ? So 
you were forced to die as well as the rest of 
us ! 

Alex. As you see, Diogenes. Is it any- 
thing so extraordinary that a mortal should 
die ! 

Diog. Amnion, then, was only passing a 

joke upon us when he declared you his 

son, while you were only the son of Philip ? 

Alex. Undoubtedly ; I should scarce 

have died if Ammon had been my father. 

Diog. Yet in support of this pretence a 
tale was spread that your mother Olympias 
had a mysterious intercourse with a dragon, 
that the dragon was seen in her bed, that 
you were the fruit of it, and that Philip was 
erroneously reputed to be your father. 

Alex. These reports did reach my ears 

as they did yours ; but I perceive now that 

of all that was said of my mother and the 

priest of Ammon not a word was true. 

Diog. Their lies, however, were of great service to you in your enterprises ; 

for many submitted to you merely because they took you for a god. — But 

tell me, who succeeds you in that prodigious empire which cost you so much 

trouble ? 

Alex. I cannot tell, my good Diogenes ; I had made no dispositions 
about it, except that when at the last gasp I gave my seal-ring to Perdiccas. — 
What makes you laugh, Diogenes ? 

Diog. What should make me laugh, but that, while I behold you thus, I 
remember all the fooleries acted by our Greeks, to please you ; how they 
flattered you from your first acceding to the government, chose you their 




DIOGENES. 






EXTRACT FROM LUCIAN'S DIALOGUES. ^l 

commander in chief against the barbarians, some even associated you with 
the twelve great deities, and built temples, and offered sacrifice to the sup- 
posed son of the dragon. But, with permission, where did the Macedonians 
bury you ? 

Alex. This is the third day that I have been lying in state at Babylon. 
In the mean time, Ptolemy, the captain of my satellites, has promised, as 
soon as the present disturbances will afford him leisure, to convey me to 
yEgypt, and inter me there, in order to procure me a place among the 
^Egyptian deities. 

Diog. And I shall not laugh, Alexander, when I see you, even in the king- 
dom of the dead, still so silly as to wish to be an Anubis or Osiris ! But 
soothe yourself with no such expectations, my divine sir ! He that has once 
crossed our lake, and entered within the mouth of Tartarus, cannot return. 
iEacus takes too much care, and there is no joking with Cerberus. But are 
you not greatly surprised, when you look round you and perceive what all is 
come to, the satellites and satraps, and all the treasures and the kneeling 
nations, and the great Babylon and Bactria, together with all the elephants ? — 
and the high triumphal car on which you shone and were gazed at as a 
meteor ! and the regal diadem on the head, and the purple flowing down in 
ample folds, when you think upon the glorious life and the majesty and the 
fame which you were forced to leave behind you ! That may well cause you 
to lament ! — Why do you weep, silly man ! Did not your wise Aristotle 
teach you how unsubstantial all those gifts of fortune are ? 

Alex. Oh, that wise man, as you call him, was the vilest of all my flatter- 
ers ! Let me alone to say what Aristotle was ! For I best know how much 
he was perpetually desiring to have of me, what letters he wrote to me, how 
he abused my vain-glorious thirst of knowledge, how he was always compli- 
menting me, and now praised me for my beauty (as if that too was in the 
number of real goods), now on account of my exploits and my riches : for 
even riches he pronounced to be a real good, to palliate the ignominy of his 
accepting so much from me. My good Diogenes, the fellow was a charlatan, 
who knew how to act his part in a masterly manner, no sage ! All the bene- 
fit I reap from his wisdom is that I now bewail the loss of those things 
which you have enumerated, because he taught me to regard them as the 
greatest blessings. 

Diog. Do you know what ? Since we have no hellebore growing here. 
I will prescribe another remedy for your grief. Repair to Lethe, and swal- 
low some copious draughts of its waters, that will infallibly render you 
insensible to the loss of the Aristotelian goods. — But are not those Clitus 
and Calesthenes, whom I see, with some others hurrying towards you with 
such fury as if they would enforce the law of retaliation against you, and tear 
you to pieces in return for the injuries they formerly suffered from you ? 
Strike therefore into this other road to Lethe, and, as I said, drink till these 
phantasies leave you. 

Menippus and Mercury. 

Menippus. Where, then, are those beautiful men and women of whom there 
was so much talk above, Mercury ? Be so good as to conduct me to them, 
as I am quite a new-comer and know not how to find my way about. 

Mercury. I have not time for it, dear Menippus : look, however, yonder ; 
rather more to the right : there are Hyacinthus and Narcissus, and Nireus, 



834 



LUCIAN 



and Achilles, and Tyro, and Helena, and Leda, in short all the celebrated 
beauties of antiquity, all together in a cluster. 

Menippus. I see nothing but bare bones and skulls, in which nothing is to 
be discriminated. 

Mercury. Yet these bones, which appear to you so contemptible, have 
been extolled by the poets to this day. 

Menippus. But show me at least Helen ; for of myself I cannot find 
her out. 

Mercury. That skull there is the beautiful Helen. 

Menippus. That, then, was the cause that all Greece was stowed together 
in a thousand ships, that so many Greeks and barbarians were slain, and so 
many cities razed to the ground ? 

Mercury. My good Menippus, you should have seen her when alive ! 
You would for certain (as well as the old counsellors of Priam in the Iliad) 
have confessed that Nemesis herself could not take it amiss — 

if such celestial charms 
For nine long years should set the world in arms. 

He that looks upon a withered flower can indeed not discover how beauti- 
ful it was while standing in full bloom and brilliant in its natural dyes. 




Menippus. What I wonder at, Mercury, is how it came to pass that the 
Greeks did not perceive that it was for the sake of such a transitory and 
evanescent object that they gave themselves all that trouble. 

Mercury. I have no time to philosophize with you, Menippus ; look thou 
therefore for a place where you choose to lodge. I must go and fetch over 
the rest of the dead. 

III. 



These simple dialogues are not the only ones of the sort. Others, 
in which the burlesque is more prominent, are included among Lucian's 
works ; in one, Jupiter is confronted by a sophist who makes short 



LUCIAN'S RIDICULE OF THE GREEK DIVINITIES. 835 

work of the king of the gods when he has a chance to cross-examine 
him about the absolute power possessed by the Fates ; and in another 
there is a long discussion in Olympus about the insolence of a philo- 
sopher who has ventured to assert that the gods do not exist. Zeus 
is furious over the suggestion ; he splutters and storms, imitating one 
of the prologues of Euripides, while Athene uses Homeric language, 
as he bids the gods to assemble in order to discuss the affair. Then 
there is commotion in Olympus over questions of precedence. Most 
of the new foreign deities are made out of gold, and so the old Greek 
divinities, being represented in less costly marble, have to take the 
back-seats. Poseidon — or Neptune in his Roman name — for example, 
loses his temper because the Egyptian deity, the dog-faced Anubis, 
was given a more honorable place than himself ; but finally Zeus 
explains the state of affairs to the assembled gods. He tells them 
that Damis, the sophist who denies the existence of the gods, has the 
sympathy of the crowd who listened to him, but that they are waiting 
to hear what his antagonist Timocles shall say before coming to a 
final decision. The different deities suggest various courses ; Poseidon 
proposes that Damis be killed by a thunderbolt ; Heracles proposes 
to enter the hall and pull down the roof on his blasphemous head ; 
Apollo tries to foretell the result of the discussion by a most ambigu- 
ous oracle, but nothing is decided on. Suddenly the scene changes 
to the scene of the debate, and Timocles tries to prove the existence 
of the gods. His task is a difficult one, however, and when he 
adduces the general consent of mankind, the order of the universe, 
the impossibility that things could go on as they do without a pilot, 
Damis meets him, until finally Timocles loses his temper and bursts 
out in stormy abuse of his opponent, who runs away laughing. Zeus 
is much pained at the discomfiture of his advocate, but Hermes com- 
forts him by pointing out that he still has the majority on his side : 
most of the Greeks, the wild rabble, and all the barbarians. 

" True," answers Zeus, " but I had rather have a single champion like 
Damis than be the ruler over ten thousand Babylons." 

Again in the council of the gods there is a somewhat similar scene 
when Momus appeals to Greece against the admission of a crowd of 
foreign deities to Olympus, the upshot of which is that Zeus publishes 
an edict stating in the preamble that the number of the gods had 
grown inconveniently large, so that their meetings were tumultuous 
assemblages in which a thousand incomprehensible jargons were 
spoken, and that the supply of nectar and ambrosia threatened to 
run short, the price having already risen, and that the intruders kept 



836 LUCIAN. 

thrusting themselves into the best seats ; therefore be it ordered that 
steps be taken to decide who have proper claims to their places, etc. 

If the gods fare ill at the hands of this merciless satirist, the philo- 
sophers, even those whom he seemed to be aiding, could not con* 
gratulate themselves on escaping his notice. In one dialogue, the 
Sale of the Philosophers, he lets eminent representatives of each sect 
announce their various qualifications and then be sold by auction, most 
of them for some trifling sum. Socrates, however, fetches a good 
round price, two talents, about two thousand dollars, Diogenes only 
six cents. Pyrrho, the Sceptic, is unable to determine whether he is 
sold or not. In a sort of sequel Lucian represents himself fleeing for 
his life from the enraged philosophers, who have managed to escape 
from Hades for a single day in order to avenge themselves. Lucian 
is brought up for judgment before Philosophy itself, and in answer to 
a question about his profession asserts that he is a hater of bragging, 
humbug, lying, pride, and the whole breed of men infected with these 
vices. 

" By Hercules," says Philosophy, "that's a business that exposes you to a 
good deal of hatred." Lucian goes on : "I love, on the other hand, truth, 
honesty, simplicity, and everything that is kindly, but I find very few with 
whom I can exercise this talent. Indeed, there are more than fifty thousand 
in the other camp, so that my affection runs the risk of perishing for lack of 
practice." 

This statement may be fairly taken as a just explanation of Lucian's 
position as a satirist, and it agrees very well with his impartiality and 
apparent lack of any other object than the desire to attack the special 
cause of wrath then before him. He does not appear as an advocate 
against religion when he laughs at the possible grotesqueness of the 
popular beliefs, and in this very dialogue he discriminates between 
the absurdities of individual philosophers and philosophy itself. 

" Some of them," he says, " follow the precepts of philosophy and observe 
its laws, and far be it from me to say anything wounding or insulting about 
them ! " 

This distinction is one more often made by those who are criticising 
satirical writing than by satirists themselves, who are apt to see noth- 
ing but harm in the objects of their wrath. Lucian held a brief for 
general sanity, rather than one against any particular foible or folly 
of society. He was a Greek, by nature if not by birth, and shunned 
exaggeration, whereas the Roman satirists who set the fashion for 
modern times worked themselves into a rage in order to make their 
assault impressive. There is a rolling accompaniment of melodra- 



HIS SUBTLE INTELLIGENCE. 837 

matic thunder in their work which Lucian never employed ; they 
attack everything in a sort of blind fury, while he dexterously inserts 
his rapier into vital spots with an easy grace and an air of quiet com- 
posure that the Roman satirists did not know. This self-possession, 
apparent even in the excitement of conflict, is still more marked in 
his choice of the objects to be condemned, for he was not a mere 
sneerer at everything, but rather a man who detested a charlatan 
because he loved an honest man, and he knew how to admire as well 
as to dislike ; and this ability to see both sides, which is generally the 
exclusive privilege of posterity, made his work effective at the time 
and has kept it fresh and admirable ever since. The same fair-mind- 
edness that he showed in his treatment of philosophy may be seen in 
his discussion of literary subjects, as, for example, in the essay on the 
proper way to write history. There he makes easy fun of the efforts 
of various contemporary writers to imitate Thucydides and Herodotus, 
and gives convincing proofs of their incompetence ; but this is not all : 
he goes on to show how history should be written, with what pains 
the facts were to be gathered, arranged, and described. In the 
account of Demonax, that is included, though with grave doubts of 
its authenticity, among his works, we may see again that the capacity 
for seeing faults did not mar its author's appreciation of a fine char- 
acter. Lucian was not a mere destroyer, for whom nothing was 
good enough ; he also constructed models to replace those which he 
destroyed. Thus, in this brief account of his dead friend, if we may 
accept its genuineness, he says that he undertakes the task in order 
to make him live, so far as possible, in the memory of virtuous men, 
and further in order that young students of philosophy may not be 
compelled to look back to antiquity for models, but may follow in 
the footsteps of a philosopher of their own time. Then he goes on 
to narrate a number of instances of the wit and wisdom of Demonax. 

IV. 

If the direct influence of Lucian on literature and philosophy 
was slight, we may yet find much in his writings that not only secured 
for this bold scoffer toleration during the Middle Ages, — when he was 
read although with disapproval, as the harsh comments on the manu- 
scripts show, — but also affected the literature of that time. To the 
early Christians his denunciations of the old mythology and his proofs 
of insufficiency of philosophy must have been welcome support from 
an unexpected ally, and it is easy to imagine with what delight they 
would have read the opening of the Timon, when the misanthropist 
taunts the King of the Gods with his incompetence : 



838 LUCIAN. 

" Zeus, protector of friendship, god of hosts, of friends, of the hearth- 
stone, of lightning, of oaths, clouds, thunder, or whatever may be the name 
under which thou art invoked by the wild brain of poets, especially when 
they are in a boggle with the metre, for then they give thee all sorts of names 
to hide the confusion of the sense and the lapses of the rhythm ; what has 
become of the flash of your lightning, and the long roar of your thunder ? 
All that must be sheer nonsense, a poetic fiction, a mere clatter of words. 
And as for the boasted thunderbolts which thou hast always kept in thy 
hand, they must have gone out and have lost the faintest spark of wrath 
with evil-doers. . . . Thou liest asleep, as if drugged, so that thou dost not 
overhear perjurers or see men doing injustice ; thy sight is dimmed, so thou 
seest not human actions, and thou art become hard of hearing." 

The whole of the dramatic sketch, for so much it really is, will be 
found interesting; it presents a picture not merely of a decayed 
Olympus where Zeus is doing his best to keep up the old state, and 
bids Hermes to order Cyclops to put a new point on his thunderbolts, 
but also of the society of Lucian's — indeed of all— time, when wealth 
has proved a magnet for flattery. The piece is one of the fullest of 
suggestion and moral instruction that Lucian ever wrote. But at this 
moment it may be worth while merely to mention one of its qualities, 
even if it be one of the least important, namely, the prominence given 
to personifications in the dialogue, where Wealth and Poverty appear, 
act, and speak like human beings, reaching back to the Plutus of 
Aristophanes on one hand and to the Middle Ages on the other. Not 
even in the Middle Ages, however, did such abstractions more nearly 
exist than here. And other analogies are to be found : some of the 
most vivid of the pictures that Lucian draws are those of scenes in the 
lower world, when the souls of men make their appearance before the 
infernal powers and are judged with hopeless severity. The scenes in 
the Menippus, for example, could hardly be make more terrible by 
even the mediaeval imagination, fed as it was on visions of horror, and 
it is but a short step from the conceptions of this pagan to Dante's 
Inferno. Thus, in the place where evil-doers are punished, Lucian 
saw and heard, as he says, — 

" only terrible things : the noise of whips, wheels, fetters, and racks ; the 
lamentations of those who are consumed by the flames. Chimsera rends 
them ; Cerberus devours them ; all are punished together, kings, slaves, 
satraps, poor, rich, beggars, all are repenting their sins. We recognized a 
few of these evil ones who had recently died ; but they tried to hide, and 
turned away, or, if they did look at us, it was with a servile and flattering 
expression. And yet these were the men who alive had been full of haughti- 
ness and contempt." 

Lucian by no means invented this list of horrors, for information 
about the lower regions had been steadily growing more precise 



HIS PICTURE OF THE LOWER WORLD. 839 

throughout antiquity, as we may see by comparing Virgil's picture of 
a retributive Hades with the pallid corner of the universe through 
which Odysseus passed many centuries before, yet nowhere do we find 
a more graphic statement of it than here, or one which came nearer 
the mediaeval visions. Another touch which Lucian supplies is this ; 
that the dead are mere skeletons, as they figure in the modern concep- 
tions ; this we find in the same Menippus, in the first of the Dialogues 
of the Dead, where Diogenes bids Pollux to tell the sturdy athletes 
that in the other world there is no glow of health or strength, nothing 
but dust, a mass of unbeautiful skulls, and far more vividly in the 
piece called the Cataplus, or Ferrying Over, which describes the passage 
across the Styx in Charon's bark with all the vividness of Bunyan. 
It is a Greek Dance of Death that Lucian puts before us : the philo- 
sopher Cyniscus complains that he has been forgotten so long ; Mega- 
penthes, the tyrant, on the other hand, asks to be allowed to return 
for a moment to finish his half-built palace, to tell his wife what is to 
be her share of the property, to conquer his enemies. He offers to 
give bonds for his speedy return. More solemn is his conviction of 
infamous sins and his condemnation to the eternal memory of his 
wicked life, for he alone is not allowed to drink of Lethe, which wipes 
out the memory of the past. 

In another sketch we find Charon coming forth from Hades to see 
what sort of a place this world is which the dead always lament to 
leave. Hermes serves as his guide, and Charon has a good oppor- 
tunity to see men with their petty passions, vain ambitions, futile 
hopes. As Hermes says : 

" What would a man do, if, when he begins to build a house and hurries 
the workmen, he should learn that when the roof was scarcely raised, he was 
to leave it for his heirs and would not have the satisfaction of eating a single 
meal there ? Another is glad because his wife has presented him with a 
son ; he invites his friends to a supper ; he names his boy after his brother : 
if he knew that the child would die at the age of seven, do you think he 
would rejoice much at his birth ? He is happy because he sees the delight 
of the father of a victor in the Olympic games ; but his neighbor, who is 
following his son to the grave, does not see him and does not think how 
slight is his hold upon his own boy. See the quarrels of men to enlarge 
their estates, to heap up riches ; then before they have begun to enjoy them, 
they are summoned away." 

To this Charon makes answer: 

" When I see all that, I fail to understand what charm men find in life, 
and why they lament to leave it. If one considers kings, who pass for the 
most fortunate of mortals, one sees that besides the instability and uncer- 
tainty of their state, they are subject to more pain than pleasure, forever 
exposed to fear, trouble, hatred, plots, resentment, flattery. I say nothing 



840 LUCIAN. 

of mourning, illness, sufferings, which are the common lot of all. Judge 
from their miseries what must be those of simple citizens. 

" Shall I tell you, Hermes, to what I liken men and their lives ? You have 
seen foam-covered bubbles floating below a waterfall ; some, the lightest, 
burst almost as soon as they are formed, others are longer-lived, and increase 
in bulk by absorbing others that swell them up beyond measure, but soon 
even they burst, for they cannot escape their fate. Such is the life of man. 
All are puffed up with a little breath ; some more, some less ; these perish 
speedily, their breath lasts but a moment ; the others perish when gathering 
new force, but all burst at last." 

Passages like these, and that in the Sacrifices, when he laughs at the 
stories told about the gods of the ancients, show how ripe the world 
was for a new dispensation, how great was the moral bent that some 
of the philosophers had given to men's thoughts. 

Before closing, it is important to speak of Lucian's descriptions of 
society, as in a passage where he portrays the humiliations endured by 
a philosopher in the house of a patron, and in his account of the so- 
called magicians who lived upon the credulity and folly of men. Thus 
one of them — Alexander by name — used to receive written questions 
from the faithful, who would seal them carefully before handing them 
in ; Alexander, however, managed to find out what the notes con- 
tained, and would give wise answers. Something of the same kind 
has been reported on similar authority in these later times. Lucian 
exposed the charlatan's tricks, but with no more success than usually 
attends the pricking of such bubbles. The whole story of this charlatan's 
career is most interesting and instructive reading, as an example of 
the curious working of superstition at this period when the old religion 
was breaking up and Christianity was commonly regarded as a sort of 
atheism. Alexander was born about 102 of our era, under the reign 
of Trajan, and died about 172, when Marcus Aurelius was emperor. 
No student can afford to overlook this brilliant picture of what we may 
call the desperation of paganism that is drawn here. While the more 
educated classes, in the wreck of the old religion, turned to the lessons 
of philosophy for spiritual guidance and consolation, following the 
teaching of the leading schools that almost without exception turned 
from the contemplation of abstract questions to the study of life, the 
lower classes, on the other hand, as they broke from the old tenets of 
their faith, welcomed foreign deities and novel rites in place of the 
proved insufficiency of the old faith. Indeed, part of the success of 
Christianity may well be ascribed to this hospitality to new ideas. 
They adopted new divinities by right of conquest, and all manner of 
oriental gods and superstitions found a new home throughout the 
Roman empire, and it was among this motley band that Alexander 
established himself with wonderful success. By the device of burying 



HIS EXPOSURE OF A CHARLATAN. 841 

tablets in the ground, soon to be exhumed, to announce the arrival of 
a divine being, a plan that, slightly modified, has succeeded in this 
country within the last half-century, he was at once accepted by men 
who took a great deal of local pride in this manifestation of divine 
preference. Alexander played his game with vast profit to himself 
and his confederates. To the god whom he brought in the guise of a 
serpent, he gave the name of Glycon and declared it a descendant of 
Aesculapius; his money he earned by the utterance of oracles and by 
answering the questions contained in sealed notes. These he opened 
after the fashion still followed by swindlers, and when this was impos- 
sible he gave replies that might mean anything. How successful he 
was is shown by Lucian's account of him, and it is further attested by 
the discovery in modern times of three inscriptions, — one in Macedonia 
and two at Carlsburg in Transylvania, — in which divine honors are 
offered to Glycon. Coins bearing the same name have also been 
found. The whole story cannot be recounted here, but it is well 
worth reading for the light it throws on the condition of the time. 

In Lucian's account of the death of Peregrinus, a Cynic philosopher, 
we may see his repugnance to the Cynics, — a repugnance that he felt, 
it is true, for all systems of philosophy, except his own Epicureanism, 
and for scientific teaching as well. Doubt was his strongest feeling. 
This essay is also of interest as showing the contempt that was felt by 
a well-educated pagan for the early Christians. 

In his True History Lucian wrote the first of the long line of impos- 
sible adventures that have since become famous, an account of gro- 
tesque travels, like those of Munchausen, Gulliver, etc. But to go 
through the whole list of his various writings is impossible ; enough 
have been mentioned to show their variety and the general tendency 
of his brilliant work. 

V. 

Enough, too, has been quoted to illustrate his wit, a quality so rare 
that if we look at the whole literature of the world we shall find that 
those who really possessed it may be readily counted on our fingers. 
Even wisdom by its side is as common as it is commonplace ; and 
besides Aristophanes, Lucian, Erasmus, Voltaire, and Heine, it would 
be hard to name any one who would not be exalted by a place in the 
second rank alongside of Cervantes and Moliere. However the list 
may be made out, it is certainly worthy of note that there are no 
applications for admission to it, except Rabelais, between Lucian and 
Erasmus, and that in that lapse of time the use of the rapier was as 
obsolete in controversy as is now that of the cross-bow in war. Indeed, 



842 L UCIAN. 

not until Voltaire did the world see such keen thrusts and so fatal stabs 
inflicted without a bruise or portentous letting of blood. The Roman 
clubbed his adversary ; and in the Middle Ages wit was something un- 
holy. Even Erasmus was at times tongue-tied by authority ; Voltaire, 
more than any one, reminds us of Lucian, as a master, not of verbal 
fence, but of verbal offense, and, more than that, of a fatal venom. In 
Lucian's case this dangerous gift was applied impartially to all society. 
but with a consummate grace free from apparent malevolence. He 
has more than almost any writer the quality that is rare at every period 
and peculiar to none, the indefinable charm of a man of the world. 
Perhaps the fact that he had nothing to prove only intensifies the 
impression. In old days, to be sure, he was denounced for not recog- 
nizing the truth of Christianity ; indeed, as was said above, he does 
not distinguish between them and heretics ; but at the present time 
one of the severest charges brought against him is that in the Her- 
motinus he spoke disrespectfully of geometry: 

"It points absurd axioms, it asks you to imagine things without con- 
sistence, invisible points, lines without breadth, and the like ; then it con- 
structs on these unsubstantial foundations a building just like them, and so 
pretends to demonstrate the truth, while starting from falsehood ; " 

and similarly girds at astronomers in the Ikaromenippos ; 

" Their sight is no better than ours ; most of them are half blind from 
old age or weakness, and yet they boast that they can have distinct vision of 
the limits of the heavens ; they measure the sun, penetrate the region 
beyond the moon, and describe the size and shape of the stars. They 
cannot tell you the distance from Megara to Athens, but they know just 
how far the sun is from the moon ; they measure the height of the atmos- 
phere, the depths of the ocean, the circumference of the earth, trace circles, 
draw triangles in squares, with any number of spheres, and actually presume 
to measure the heavens themselves ! " 

Others, again, lament the unsatisfactoriness of his treatise on the 
proper way of writing history. He is said to utter only common- 
places, but unfortunately good advice is always commonplace. 

Moreover, what we have left of his productions, and the supply is 
not a scanty one, has a greater importance than that of attesting his 
wit and intelligence, in showing us the general condition of the minds 
of his contemporaries. Not only, as Gibbon has said (vol. i., cap. ii.) 
can we be sure " that a writer conversant with the world would never 
have ventured to expose the gods of his country to public ridicule, 
had they not already been the objects of secret contempt among the 
polished and enlightened orders of society," — for not only would 
Lucian have never ventured to publish them, but they would not have 



ROMAN DEPENDENCE ON GREEK CIVILIZATION. 



843 




APOLLONIUS OF TYANA. 



entered into his mind — but we may also gather much useful informa- 
tion on the extremely interesting period in which he lived. The most 
striking fact of this age is the new prominence of the Greeks and the 
way in which their intellectual acuteness conquered the swiftly decay- 
ing Romans. The influence of the Greek men of letters — for by that 
phrase we may understand rhetoricians, sophists, and grammarians — 
was enormous. It spread far into the East, for in Philostratus's Life 
of Apollonius of Tyana, we find him talking in Greek to an Indian 
king who amuses himself with listening to 
recitations from Greek poets, although this 
is the last book in the world to use as an au- 
thority; but we also know from other sources 
— what is in itself only credible — that Greek 
rhetoricians made their way into Asia along 
with the armies of Alexander the Great. 
Their greatest influence was, however, in 
Rome and throughout the whole vast Roman 
empire, which offered a vast field for the 
Greeks with their older and riper culture. 
The rhetoricians and sophists were the 

teachers of Rome; all the young men received their instructions 
from these sole representatives of a higher civilization, in whose 
hands alone lay the care of all intellectual matters. The whole 
tone of Roman literature makes clear the wide-spread dependence 
on later Greek models; the interest of the Roman emperors in 
these teachers was most active: Hadrian and the Antonines sup- 
ported them with the weight of their authority ; they gave the 
philosophers high positions, appointed them tutors to their sons, 
listened to their debates and lectures, sought their society. Under 
this powerful encouragement the tone of the Greek teachings im- 
proved, and the consciousness of their intellectual superiority to the 
Romans who ruled the world aroused their patriotism and ambition. 
It is curious to notice their indifference to the work of the Roman 
writers. Only once or twice had Plutarch quoted any Latin author, 
and Lucian is equally contemptuous, while both praise not only 
Greece, but especially Athens, the brain of Greece. With the decay 
of the vast power of Rome, the self-satisfaction of the Greeks could 
only grow stronger, and their efforts to maintain their pre-eminence 
were many and interesting. To speak of literature alone, we find 
countless fanciful discussions on trivial themes ; thus Lucian's eulogy 
of the fly is an example of the futile exercise of intelligence com- 
mon at periods of general apathy, such as we see among the later 
writers of the Italian Renaissance, and possibly in some of the modern 



8 44 



LUCIA N. 



verse-making of English bards who make very clear the schism be- 
tween life and literary cleverness. Imaginary questions were put up 
for discussion, such as the feelings of Hector on learning that Priam 
had sat at the table of Achilles, and similar hypothetical problems 
wherein everything depended on the ingenuity of the speaker. Con- 
fused ethical questions had to be settled by the ready tongues and 
quick wits of those practiced debaters. 

Nor is it in prose alone that we find instances of this semi-dramatic 
toying with the subjects of the older literature: in the Anthology 
there are a number of epigrams treating various scenes of antiquity ; 
thus, we come across such fantastic subjects as these : What Helen 
might have said during the combat between Menelaus and Paris ; what 
Agamemnon might have said when Achilles was armed ; words of 
Achilles to Aias, to reconcile him with Odysseus, etc., — the list is 
a long one, and serves to show how the later writers were never 
wearied of threshing the old straw. The literary cleverness survived 
the decay of genuine feeling, and inspired the continual rehandling of 
the old themes in both prose and verse. After all, the warnings 
against artificial literature are distinctly more numerous than impres- 
sive, and the authority of the ancient Greeks has served much more 
as an admirable model than as a warning. 




YOUNG MAN READING. 



CHAPTER VL— PROSE WRITERS.— Continued. 

— Literary Trifles not the Only Interests. The New View of Moral Greatness. 
The Life of Epictetus. II. — Marcus Aurelius. His Work as a Writer. III. — 
Philostratus, and his Discussion of Literary and Artistic Subjects. IV. — The 
Final Gatherings from Antiquity. Athenasus, and his Collection of Anecdotes. 
^Elian. Some Historians. V. — Pausanias. Longinus, and his Literary Criticism. 
The Later Philosophy. VI. — In 529, the Closing of the University of Athens, 
and the Conversion of the Temple of Hermes into a Monastery. VII. — Further 
Fragments. The Thrashing of Thrashed Straw. 



IT was not mere trifling subjects like those ridiculed by Lucian that 
were chattered about in this busy time. Some of the wandering 
sophists discussed more serious questions : such were Dion Chrysos- 
tomus, or golden-mouthed, so called from his eloquence ; Polemon of 
Laodicea, Herodes Atticus, and Adrian of Tyre. Dion began as the 
merest disclaimer of attractive novelties, but after his conversion to 
the principles of a sounder philosophy he became a sort of itinerant 
preacher, who wandered throughout the civilized world giving conso- 
lation and advice from the teachings of the past, very much as the early 
Christians carried the gospel from place to place. The account that 
we have of Paul's preaching at Athens is but one of many examples 
of the eagerness of the public to hear them who brought them instruc- 
tion. A writer has pointed out the resemblance between the desire 
of the Athenians to hear Paul's new teachings and the way in which 
Dion was urged to preach, — for there is no other word for it — at the 
Olympic games. Another curious similarity is this: Dion used to 
choose a text from Homer, then, as ever, the great book, on which 
he would speak, and at the conclusion he would invoke the kind 
offices of Persuasion, the Muses, and Apollo to give his words convic- 
tion. The whole story of the blending of Christianity with this 
decaying society is too vast to be more than touched on here. More 
appropriate to this place is the consideration of the influence of litera- 
ture at this time on that which has followed it. But belonging to 
both religion and literature is the philosophical teaching, already noted 
in Dion Chrysostom, but more marked in Epictetus and Marcus Au- 
relius. How wide-spread was the feeling that reform was necessary 



846 PROSE WRITERS— {CONTINUED). 

we may judge from many instances; the depth of the corruption inev- 
itably begot great efforts to eradicate it, and with the decay of the 
belief in the old mythology there existed the need of appealing to 
other and more deeply seated principles that should direct right-doing. 
Everywhere we see the ground being made ready for the reception of 
Christianity, and in both Epictetus and Marcus Aurelius we may see 
the most serious statements of the dignity of the moral law. While 
these two men were alike in announcing this important truth, no 
greater contrast can be found than that between their respective 
conditions; M. Aurelius was Emperor, Epictetus a slave. The two 
men, however, met on a ground which does not concern itself with 
social position. Both owed the direction of their thought to the 
philosophy of the Stoics, and both taught the same lofty lessons. The 
manual of Epictetus was not written down by him, but by one of his 
disciples, Arrian, who took Xenophon for his model, and, as we shall 
see below, besides writing a book on history which he called an Ana- 
basis, and a minor treatise to which he gave a name already used by 
Xenophon, remembering the service his model had done to Socrates, 
recorded his own recollection of his master's talk. 

Epictetus was born in Phrygia in the first century of our era, and 
was the slave of a freedman in Rome at the time of Nero. In that 
city he lived many years, until Domitian exiled the philosophers, 
when he betook himself to Nicopolis, a town in Epeirus, and there he 
is supposed to have died. All that we know of his life is his lameness, 
his poverty, and his untiring zeal in teaching uprightness in thought 
and conduct. The upshot of his maxims may be expressed in the 
words, " Bear and forbear"; endurance and abstinence he forever 
inculcated with an intensity of language which is very different from 
the grace of the earlier philosophers. His commands have the severity 
of laws, with no appeal, no mercy, and no recognition of human weak- 
ness. How impressive his lessons were may be gathered from the 
fact that two of the early Christians were able to adapt them, with but 
slight modifications, for the study of the young. The rigor of what 
we may call his statute book is modified in the Discourses, of which 
four books have come down to us out of the eight in which Arrian set 
forth his master's exposition of his doctrines. What in the manual is 
uttered as an edict, is here urged by a direct, impressive eloquence 
that was most convincing. He has no grace or charm, no tenderness, 
and above all, none of the sympathy that gave Christianity its foot- 
hold, but rather a force of rugged conviction. Yet the teachings of 
the philosophers who acquired their enormous influence in the decay- 
ing Roman empire in succession to the Greek rhetoricians and sophists 
manifested in their new religious spirit the same intolerance of artistic 



EXTRACT OF EPICTETUS 847 

beauty that characterized the early Christianity. In its place the 
Christians set the idea of moral beauty; the philosophers, however, 
not only looked on art as a degradation, they maintained the impor- 
tance of an appeal to the reason. Epictetus is forever arguing, as the 
philosophers had been trained for centuries to argue, but philosophy 
never acquired a popular form; its rewards were vague and intangible. 
It appealed, too, only to the learned, and, wise as its lessons were, they 
were too reasonable for general acceptance. It failed to inspire the 
magnificent enthusiasm which a mighty religion calls forth. 

It is circumstances (difficulties) which show what men are. Therefore 
when a difficulty falls upon you, remember that God, like a trainer of wrestlers, 
has matched you with a rough young man. 1 For what purpose ? you may say. 
Why, that you may become an Olympic conqueror ; but it is not accomplished 
without sweat. In my opinion no man has had a more profitable difficulty 
than you have had, if you choose to make use of it as an athlete would deal 
with a young antagonist. We are now sending a scout to Rome ; but no 
man sends a cowardly scout, who, if he only hears a noise and sees a shadow 
anywhere, comes running back in terror and reports that the enemy is close 
at hand. So now if you should come and tell us, Fearful is the state of affairs 
at Rome, terrible is death, terrible is exile, terrible is calumny ; terrible is 
poverty ; fly, my friends ; the enemy is near — we shall answer, Be gone, proph- 
esy for yourself ; we have committed only one fault, that we sent such a scout. 
Diogenes, who was sent as a scout before you, made a different report to us. 
He says that death is no evil, for neither is it base : he says that fame (repu- 
tation) is the noise of madmen. And what has this spy said about pain, about 
pleasure, and about poverty? He says that to be naked is better than any 
purple robe, and to sleep on the bare ground is the softest bed ; and he gives 
as a proof of each thing that he affirms, his own courage, his tranquillity, his 
freedom, and the healthy appearance and compactness of his body. There 
is no enemy near, he says ; all is peace. How so, Diogenes? See, he replies, 
if I am struck, if I have been wounded, if I have fled from any man. This 
is what a scout ought to be. But you come to us and tell us one thing after 
another. Will you not go back, and you will see clearer when you have laid 
aside fear ? 

What then shall I do ? What do you do when you leave a ship ? Do you 
take away the helm or the oars ? What then do you take away ? You take 
what is your own, your bottle and your wallet ; and now if you think of what 
is your own, you will never claim what belongs to others. The emperor 
(Domitian) says, Lay aside your Laticlave. See, I put on the angusticlave. 
Lay aside this also. See, I have only my toga. Lay aside your toga. See, 
1 am now naked. But you still raise my envy. Take then all my poor 
body ; when, at a man's command, I can throw away my poor body, do I still 
fear him? 

But a certain person will not leave me the succession to his estate. What 
then ? had I forgotten that not one of these things was mine ? How then do 
we call them mine? Just as we call the bed in the inn. If then the inn- 
keeper at his death leaves you the beds ; all well ; but if he leaves them to 
another, he will have them, and you will seek another bed. If then you shall 
not find one, you will sleep on the ground : only sleep with a good will and 
snore, and remember that tragedies have their place among the rich and kings 



848 PROSE WRITERS— {CONTINUED). 

and tyrants, but no poor man fills a part in a tragedy, except as one of the 
chorus. Kings indeed commence with prosperity : " Ornament the palace 
with garlands " : then about the third or fourth act they call out, " Oh Ci- 
thaeron, why didst thou receive me ? " Slave, where are the crowns, where 
the diadem ? The guards help thee not at all. When then you approach 
any of these persons, remember this, that you are approaching a tragedian, 
not the actor, but Oedipus himself. But you say, Such a man is happy ; for 
he walks about with many, and I also place myself with the many and walk 
about with many. In sum remember this : the door is open ; be not more 
timid than little children, but as they say, when the thing does not please 
them, "I will play no longer," so do you, when things seem to you of 
such a kind, say " I will no longer play," and be gone : but if you stay, do 
not complain. 

II. 

The Thoughts of Marcus Aurelius, the last of the great pagan 
moralists, show us the same intense feeling of the claims of duty, 
expressed with a certain tendency to meditation on the emptiness of 
all things, that is rather a matter of sentiment than of cold reason. In 
some measure, doubtless, this new spirit was a result of the inevitable 
absence of companions enforced upon the emperor by his high position. 
His loneliness intensified his experience of the incapacity of any earthly 
grandeur to supply the place of an approving conscience, and hence 
he modifies the rigid tone of Epictetus, and turns continually to the 
statement of the need of toleration. Thus: (ix. 11.) 

" If thou art able, correct by teaching those who do wrong ; but if thou 
canst not, remember that indulgence is given thee for this purpose. And 
the gods too are indulgent to such persons ; and for some purposes they 
even help them to get health, wealth, reputation ; so kind they are. And it 
is in thy power also ; or say, who hinders thee ? " 

Elsewhere he speaks of the need of love for all men, and of kindness 
towards all. This tendency, however, is not to be fully accounted for 
as a personal peculiarity of the emperor's, for in Seneca and others 
we notice a similar change, as if the lessons of philosophy, when they 
had become more nearly popular, had acquired a humaner tone. In 
Marcus Aurelius, indeed, we find many references to that much abused 
conception, the brotherhood of men, " to care for all men is according 
to men's nature." No writer, too, has had a more vivid feeling of the 
two infinities, of the past and the future, that bound the imaginary 
movement that we call the present : 

" Consider, for example, the times of Vespasian. Thou wilt see all these 
things, people marrying, bringing up children, sick, dying, warring, feasting, 
trafficking, cultivating the ground, flattering, obstinately arrogant, suspect- 
ing, plotting, wishing for some to die, grumbling about the present, loving, 



THE WRITINGS OF PHILOSTRATUS. 549 

heaping up treasure, desiring consulship, kingly power. Well then, that life 
of these people no longer exists at all. Again, remove to the times of Trajan, 
Again, all is the same. Their life too is gone. In like manner view also the 
other epochs of time and of whole nations, and see how many after great 
efforts soon fell and were resolved into the elements. But chiefly thou 
shouldst think of those whom thou hast thyself known distracting themselves 
about idle things, neglecting to do what was in accordance with their proper 
constitution and to hold firmly to this and to be content with it." And 
again, " Some things are hurrying into existence, and others are hurrying out 
of it ; and of that which is coming into existence part is already extinguished. 
Motions and changes are continually renewing the world, just as the unin- 
terrupted course of time is always renewing the infinite duration of ages. In 
this flowing stream, then, on which there is no abiding, what is there of the 
things which hurry by on which a man would set a high price ? It would be 
just as if a man should fall in love with one of the sparrows which fly by, but 
it has already passed out of sight." And this, " But perhaps the desire of the 
thing called fame will torment thee — See how soon everything is forgotten, 
and look at the chaos of infinite time on each side of the present, and the 
emptiness of applause, and the changeableness and want of judgment in those 
who pretend to give praise, and the narrowness of the space within which it 
is circumscribed." 

This exalted thought, with the tendency to mysticism that occa- 
sionally shows itself, has comforted many minds, in spite of its apparent 
austerity, by means of its undebatable sincerity and dignity. The 
upshot of its teaching is virtue and a reasonable, determined virtue, 
which is surely a good fruit by which to judge its value for mankind. 

On returning to literature we find an abundance of less important 
work. Thus Philostratus, born at about 172 A.D., presents a state of 
society from which mankind might well have turned with a feeling of 
weariness. His life of Apollonius of Tyana recounts the impossible 
adventures of a famous charlatan, who deceived a credulous public by 
alleged walking in the air, prophecy, and other accomplishments that 
never fail to find supporters among people intelligent in other respects, 
for the disposition to believe is often stronger than the proof of the 
facts which are believed. Besides this curious book, he wrote some 
Lives of the Sophists, which well portray these men. In addition to 
the older ones from Gorgias to Socrates, he describes the later ones 
who flourished not long before his own time, and about them he has 
collected a considerable amount of information. In the Heroica 
another Philostratus, a relative, has written a dialogue concerning the 
heroes of the Trojan war. It is a collection of mythological discus- 
sions treating those famous men from the point of view of a man 
who is prepared to discredit Homer, and who brings much evidence 
from the lost cyclic poets. Homer is blamed for his partiality to 
Odysseus and his unkind treatment of Palamedes. Possibly the point 
of view, besides suggesting the general rupture with the past, also 



850 PROSE WRITERS— {CONTINUED). 

illustrates the particular tendency of the later times to modify with 
unwearying ingenuity all the old traditions. Protesilaus is repre- 
sented as returned from the shades to this world, where he lives 
in the position of a sort of domesticated ghost, and it is his report 
as told by a vintner to a Phenician visitor that makes up the book. 
The Homeric poem, it is explained, gives credit only to Achilles 
and Odysseus, and he tries to do justice to the other heroes. 
Thus, Palamedes comes in for some good words ; the Trojan leaders 
are kindly spoken of, yet Achilles himself is treated at great length 
and with admiration. Homer remains the leading authority, but 
many of the statements are taken from the lost cyclic poets. In the 
Imagines, Philostratus describes a number of pictures, apparently 
some definite collections, and thus throws light on some of the ref- 
erences of the poets, besides explaining some of the customs of the 
artists. The Epistles are seventy-three long letters of trifling value. 
Possibly some may think this judgment inevitable in any circumstances, 
and it cannot be avoided when mere rhetorical exercises are under 
consideration 

IV. 

Of professional rhetoricians should be mentioned Hermogenes, born 
about 160 A.D., who wrote a number of text-books on this art, which 
were for a long time in general use. Maximus of Tyre, who belongs 
probably about thirty years later, left a number of essays on subjects 
that interested the later Platonists. Of Publius iElius Aristides, 
born about 129, or perhaps ten years earlier, we have left a number of 
speeches, of moderate interest ; some are panegyrics of different cities, 
others are addresses defending the moribund Greek deities, still others 
are the merest rhetorical exercises. Athenaeus deserves longer men- 
tion for his Deipnosophists, or Learned Guests, as its puzzling title is 
sometimes translated, although it yet remains uncertain whether it is 
their gastronomic or their literary acquirements that are signified : pos- 
sibly the word may have had the same double meaning for the author. 
There is certainly nothing in the book to enable the modern reader to 
come to a decision, for the rival claims of gluttony and letters are pre- 
sented with wonderful impartiality. The author was born at Naucratis 
in Egypt at an uncertain date. A good part of his life was spent at 
Alexandria, whence he betook himself to Rome. We know that part 
at least of his book must have been written after 228 A.D. His book 
consists of a conversation or series of conversations that are sup- 
posed to have taken place at Rome in the house of a rich man named 
Laurentius, when twenty-nine guests were assembled, among whom 
were Galen of Pergamon, the physician, and Ulpian, the lawyer. 
These conversations are reported by the author to one Timocrates, 



THE WORKS OF ATHENsEUS, OF AELIAN. 851 

a clumsy device that mars the artistic form of the work. Yet even 
without this double machinery and its additional awkwardness, the 
pedantry of the conversations would have swamped any machinery that 
could have been devised, for the simple reason that no such talk could 
ever have come from human lips. The conversation is merely the 
author's excuse for discharging a commonplace book that is crammed 
with extracts on the greatest possible variety of subjects. The arti- 
cles of food are placed on the table, and the proper way of spelling 
and accenting their names at once call forth copious quotations ; they 
suggest what this and that poet has said about them, such or such an 
incident in the life of a man who spoke of them. Meanwhile various 
subjects come up, not for discussion, but as outlets for more quota- 
tions and anecdotes. The result is that the book is a most complete 
summary of rare facts, interesting citations, and curious learning, 
thrown together with a helpless struggle after coherence that leaves 
the separate facts almost as independent of one another as the defini- 
tions in a dictionary. Fortunately there is almost the same abun- 
dance, and the variety of the subjects treated has given us a vast 
amount of curious information on a great many subjects, on the cus- 
toms of the Greeks, their language, natural history, and especially on 
their poetry. The number of authors whom Athenseus quotes is about 
800, and of about 700 of these we have no other line. He certainly 
has claims for our forgiveness if he has, at times, mingled his food 
with his learning. We do not know so much about the life of the 
ancient Greeks that we can afford to dispense with any information 
about them, even if it be in good part mere gossip ; on the contrary, 
we are quite as eager for mere gossip about them as we are for gossip 
about our neighbors in the next street. 

To the other collectors of anecdotes less praise can be given. Of 
Aelian, for example, it may be said that he owes his long-lived fame 
to the chance that has preserved some of his writings, rather than their 
safety to his celebrity. He was an Italian by birth, and he lived the 
greater part of his life in Rome in the third century, but he acquired 
the mastery of the Greek language, and wrote in it a work called Mis- 
cellaneous Inquiries, which is a collection of scrappy anecdotes, bio- 
graphical, historical, and antiquarian, which are all huddled together 
without the slightest attempt at orderly arrangement. He also com- 
piled a similar work on natural history which is as discursive and inco- 
herent as a column of items in a newspaper. 

Diogenes Laertius, whose date is uncertain, wrote a series of lives 
of the philosophers, which, in the absence of other authorities, pos- 
sesses a value quite independent of its intrinsic merits. The book is 
evidently compiled from the various works of a number of writers, but 



852 PROSE WRITERS— {CONTINUED). 

with great carelessness, so that it is often obscure and contradictory. 
Anecdotes are strung together without purpose, and there is little care 
shown in distinguishing the various philosophical systems, so that the 
best thing that can be said of the book is that it is better than no 
book at all. 

Arrian has been mentioned above as an imitator of Xenophon, and 
as the writer to whom we are indebted for a record of the sayings of 
Epictetus ; having thus copied his master's Memorabilia, he wrote an 
Anabasis of Alexander the Great, describing the campaigns of that 
general in the East. This is a valuable book ; singularly enough what 
knowledge we have of Alexander's campaigns comes to us mainly from 
two authors, Q. Curtius and Arrian, who lived five hundred years later, 
but Arrian's work is complete and drawn from the best authorities. 
For the facts he consulted the contemporary histories of Alexander, 
written by his two generals, Ptolemy, the son of Lagos, and Aristobulus, 
while at the same time he referred also to others. He thus imitated 
something more than the mere style of the best Greek writers. The 
battles are described with great care and vividness ; indeed the whole 
book is valuable as a trustworthy account of one of the most important 
events in the world's history. Arrian also wrote an account of a voy- 
age around the Euxine, and in the Ionic dialect a brief description 
of India. 

Appian, who lived in the middle of the second century in Alexandria, 
where he was born, and in Rome, wrote a Roman history, by which he 
meant that of the whole empire. Only part of this has come down to 
us, that on the civil wars, of which we have no other full record. 

Dion Cassius Cocceianus, the son of a Roman senator, and grandson, 
it is thought, of the rhetorician Dion Chrysostom, was born at Nicaea 
in Bithynia, in 155 A.D. The best part of his life was spent in Rome, 
where he held various public positions, and at Capua and in his birth- 
place he composed a history of that city from its foundation until 229 
A.D. The author's public life made him familiar with administrative 
details ; he was naturally acquainted with the Latin language, and 
thus able to prepare a work that should be a standard authority. It 
consisted originally of eighty books, of which xxxvii-lx. have come 
down to us either complete or nearly complete, and much of the rest 
in fragments. The part that has survived treats of the period between 
the overthrow of Mithridates and the outbreak of the civil war between 
Caesar and Pompey, and is obviously of the greatest importance. Dion 
Cassius took Thucydides and Polybius for his models, and tried to elu- 
cidate as well as to chronicle the events of which he wrote. Naturally 
enough, the defects of a rhetorical age are to be distinguished in the 
book, but these are very far from seriously injuring its value. 



LONGINUS ON THE SUBLIME. 853 



V. 

Of the life of Pausanias scarcely any more is known or even plau- 
sibly conjectured than that he was a Lydian by birth who flourished in 
the second half of the second century. He left a description of Greece 
as it was before it was robbed of its artistic treasures, and when, as its 
quality as a guide-book indicates, a tour in that country was a common 
thing. The book describes the different regions and mentions the 
various objects of interest to be seen in each, referring to them mainly, 
however, from the point of view of a pious pagan who is visiting this 
home of the old mythology. 

Longinus does not belong, except in time, with these historians and 
geographers, but place may perhaps be found here for the mention of 
the famous treatise On the Sublime, which is ascribed to him. The 
author, whose full name was Dionysius Cassius Longinus, was probably 
a Syrian; and although his exact date is uncertain, it is conjectured 
that he was born about 210 A.D. He was famous among his contem- 
poraries for his profound learning ; he was called " a living library 
and a walking museum." He wrote commentaries on Homer, Plato, 
Demosthenes, and on some of the poets, as well as on philosophy, but 
all that we have of him is this treatise on the Sublime. Even this 
is of doubtful genuineness, and it has been supposed that the essay 
may belong to some other person or very different period, but it is 
at least inextricably bound up with his name by common assent. The 
treatise itself is an attempt to explain what it is that goes to the forma- 
tion of an impressive style. This is certainly a tempting subject, and 
the exposition has won great fame, especially among those who hoped 
that perhaps the merit of the Greek writers was due to some secret 
which Longinus would unfold. When modern literature recognized 
no other merit than the imitation of the ancient, the one man who 
taught writers how to attain sublimity was thought more useful if not 
more admirable than those who were merely sublime without saying 
how they became so. Yet the secret is as dark as ever; if Longinus 
knew it, he never told it, for his precepts about the omission of 
the copulative conjunctions in order to attain grandeur, and the live- 
liness that results from the use of question and answer, as in the ora- 
tions of Demosthenes, are simply rhetorical explanations after the 
event. The essay, however, is an interesting discussion of the prin- 
ciples of literary art which well meets the objection that there is no 
use to be derived from the study of rhetoric. The author runs over 
ancient literature ; indeed he also quotes the beginning of the book 
of Genesis as a sample of eloquence, and illustrates his intelligent 



854 PROSE WRITERS— {CONTINUED). 

remarks with apt examples. The book is certainly full of merit, even 
if it has been overrated in modern times by those who have expected 
too much from it. The later days, when the intelligence of the Greeks 
was devoted to the study of the great works of the past, produced 
innumerable commentators, and we are fortunate in having one of 
the best of their studies. 

What was done in literature was also done in philosophy in its 
wanderings away from Athens. As the moralists had at length pro- 
duced an ethical code which bore distinct resemblance, in its serious- 
ness at least, to some of the principles of Christianity, the schools 
which rested on the Platonic doctrines became so far modified in 
Alexandria by Oriental thought as to produce a sort of theology, 
which exercised great influence on early Christianity. All that inge- 
nuity could do in the manipulation of philosophical problems had 
been done by generations of accomplished thinkers, and the result 
was nothing ; the questions that had been asked with every refine- 
ment of thought and expression found no answer awaiting them. The 
mystery of the Universe was unsolved and insoluble in spite of the 
most cunning intellectual machinery that the world had ever known, 
and the world was tired of a failure that only became evident when 
every attempted solution had failed. Convinced of its impotence, 
philosophy sought the aid of faith, and, thereby advocating its supre- 
macy, it became theology. In short, all that was Greek in Neo-platon- 
ism was its name and the language in which it was written. 

Philo, commonly called Judaeus or the Jew, was born in Alexandria 
about twenty years before Christ, and in his writings we see an attempt 
to reconcile the sacred writings of his people with the methods of 
Greek thought. This he did by explaining the Old Testament allegori- 
cally, showing that they contained the highest truths in a veiled form. 
By his statement of the impossibility of conceiving God, except as he 
manifests himself in the Logos, or word, he built up an enormous part 
of the theology of the early Christian writers. Numenius, a Syrian, 
who lived in the middle of the second century, and Ammonius, a 
porter of Alexandria, born 170 A.D., carried on the study of philoso- 
phy, but one of its most important adherents was Plotinus, born at 
Lycopolis in Egypt, in 205 A.D. He, like the others, started from 
Plato. Porphyry, his commentator, born 233 A.D. , sought to find alle- 
goric truth in the old Greek mythology. Iamblichus, who died about 
330, also did his best to present the good side of the dying system. 
But the fight, though long, was hopeless, and while Christianity ab- 
sorbed much from the higher teaching of the Neo-platonists, its growth 
went on at the expense of the tiresome repetitions of the Rhetoricians 
and Sophists. Among the last of these were Libanius, of the fourth 



THE LAST DAYS OF PAGANISM. 855 

century, of whose speeches many are left, which thresh over once 
more the old straw, with a certain literary excellence but no serious 
importance. Himerias, born 315, left a great many orations on imag- 
inary subjects, no more literature than school declamation is oratory. 
More important than these word-jugglers was the Emperor Julian the 
Apostate, 331-363, who relapsed from Christianity to paganism, and en- 
deavored to enforce a similar change by eloquence as well as by author- 
ity. Of his relations to Christianity this is not the place to speak, 
but it may be observed that what inspired these is what is to be seen 
in his literary memorials, namely, a great interest in the grand past of 
Greece, which outweighed the merit of what he perceived in the new 
dispensation. In Proclus, the last great name of the Greek philoso- 
phers, we see another foe of the new religion. He too upheld the 
dying paganism, from which he drew an eclectic teaching. He died 
in 485. 

VI. 

In 529 the Emperor Justinian closed the school of philosophy at 
Athens, the one founded by Plato, that had existed nine hundred 
years, and with its extinction disappeared also the Hellenism that had 
to the last struggled vainly against Christianity. It died a violent death, 
succumbing to the same harshness that paganism had before employed 
against its at last successful rival. In the same year, as part of the per- 
secution of the heathen which had long existed, St. Benedict destroyed 
the last temple of Apollo at Monte Casino, and established there the 
first monastery of his order, which formed one of the most important 
links between the old world and the new. In Alexandria, the Hellenic 
spirit had expired in blood and riot, with Hypatia for its martyr. 

The closing of the university at Athens put an end to the last glim- 
mering of the classical influence of that city in ancient times. Its 
history meanwhile, since the establishment of Alexandria, had not 
been without interest ; far from it. The Peloponnesian war had shat- 
tered its brief supremacy, but its intellectual and artistic importance 
had long survived its political ruin, and the memory of its wonderful 
past had at times moderated the severity of its conquerors. When 
the Macedonians conquered, the city resigned itself easily to its new 
masters, for, as Parmenion said to Antipater, " what could be done by 
men who passed their lives in celebrating Dionysos, in public feasts and 
dancing?" Its ancient eloquence turned to ingenious flattery when 
at the Eleusinian festival a chorus of noble Athenians sang thus to 
Demetrius Poliorcetes: " The other gods are remote, or do not give 
us the least attention. But you we adore as a god who is present, not 
one of wood or stone, but true and living; and it is to you that we 



856 PROSE WRITERS— {CONTINUED). 

offer our prayers. And first, beloved one, grant us peace ; for you 
can. Punish the Sphinx who ravages all Greece. . . . As for me, I 
can fight no more." Naturally when the Romans advanced, in their 
conquest of the world, towards Greece, Athens was ready to receive 
them. Before that time it had known little of this new Roman power. 
Plutarch tells us that a mere vague rumor of the capture of Rome 
had reached Greece ; Heraclides of Pontus, one of Plato's disciples, 
states that an army coming from the Hyperborean regions had con- 
quered a Greek city called Rome, which lies in the West, not far from 
the great sea. Rome was revenged in the Middle Ages when it was 
held that Latin was the native speech of the Athenians. 

When, after the first Punic war, ambassadors came to Corinth and 
Athens with messages of amity, Athens was the first to adapt itself to 
the new conditions ; it granted to the Romans Athenian citizenship 
and the privilege of initiation in the Eleusinian mysteries — all it had 
to give. Its intelligence survived these dynastic changes ; the old 
tragedies were produced on the stage, and the new comedies of 
Menander and his rivals; philosophy flourished and rhetoric, and the 
influence of its cultivation spread over the West as well as towards 
the East, and Athens was honored as the home of arts and letters. 

After the city was taken by storm by Sylla in his war with Mithri- 
dates, it was long in recovering from its harsh fate. Grain was grown 
within its walls, even in the Agora. The statues were half hidden in 
the corn, but the old fame of the city still attracted to it hosts of 
Romans who sought for culture. These visited it for study or for the 
aesthetic delight which tempts us moderns to the same place or to 
Rome. And what we call the Athenian university, which was in part 
supported by imperial generosity, became a most important means of 
support for the whole city. 

This tact, which led them to flatter their conquerors, their devotion 
to the refining influences of life and their aversion to war, made the 
Athenians generally popular. Lucian in his Nigrinus says that they 
were brought up in devotion to philosophy and poverty, and that they 
detested extravagance and display, which they regarded as proper 
rather for Rome. Praise was given to the liberty, the absence of 
petty jealousy, the quiet, and leisure of Athens. Libanius called the 
Athenians " godlike "; thus the old glory of the citizens of Athens 
was inherited by their descendants. 

Yet there was not an unbroken devotion to study even here — after 
all there was discord in Olympus — for the young men knew other 
interests than philosophy and letters ; the pupils of the various teachers 
formed societies, which fought with stones or even swords over the 
new arrivals whom they strove to enroll among their number. Un- 



THE ARTIFICIAL COMPOSITIONS OF THE SOPHISTS. 857 

popular instructors were occasionally tossed in a rug by their discon- 
tented scholars, and even less creditable stories are told of the dis- 
orderly conduct of the students. But these trivialities only indicate, 
what other things more clearly prove, the decay of real interest in 
Athens, which had sunk to the condition of a provincial city, full, to 
be sure, of inspiring memories, but insignificant by the side of Alex- 
andria, Rhodes, Pergamon, or even Rome and Marseilles. Its past 
remained its greatest glory. The library of Alexandria made residence 
there imperative for men who were doing active work in exegesis, and 
the wealth of Rome drew teachers as well as pupils from all quarters. 
Philosophy, as we have seen, continued to be taught for many cen- 
turies in its old home by many generations of teachers, but the growth 
of Christianity was about to displace even this. 

VII. 

Not all these later Greeks, however, were philosophers, and amid 
the general literary work of this time with its continual return to old 
subjects we find numerous imaginary letters, such as those, already 
mentioned, of Philostratus, and many other collections of fictitious 
correspondence, some of which have at different times deceived unprac- 
tised students by their mock air of genuineness. Letters of Phalaris, 
Themistocles, Alexander, and other great men, were composed many 
centuries after their death, as an exercise in literary composition that 
ran in parallel lines with the fictitious declamations devised by ingeni- 
ous rhetoricians to represent the imaginary speeches of great orators. 
The so-called letters of Phalaris acquired an importance enormously 
disproportionate to their original worth by Bentley's proof that they 
were forgeries, whereby he placed the modern criticism of the classics 
on a sure footing and gave most valuable aid to the development of 
modern English literature, helping to bring it out from beneath the 
shadow of the ancient. The mistake which had been made was some- 
thing like that which would take place if at some future time Tenny- 
son's Idyls of the King should be thought real mediaeval poems, or Lan- 
dor's " Pericles and Aspasia" a genuine translation from the classics. 

The Greeks and Romans were in fact living on their capital, on the 
traditions and memories that had gathered about ancient Hellas. The 
present seemed dead. Just as an old man loses all memory of current 
events and recalls only the incidents of his boyhood, so these dying 
races recurred for ever to their own youth. The later Sophists, when 
they came down to the earth at all, discussed remote events at the 
time of the Peloponnesian and Persian wars, or even earlier: they 
invented a speech for Xenophon, who proposes to die in place of 



858 PROSE WRITERS— {CONTINUED). 

Socrates ; they composed an oration that Demosthenes might have 
uttered, or Solon ; they composed imaginary debates between Alex- 
ander and his generals, whether or not he should push on to the ocean ; 
Agamemnon considers the advisability of slaying Iphigeneia, etc. ; 
the list was as long as ancient history. In Ovid we shall see similar 
fantastic treatment of the past, and without going so far from the sub- 
ject before us we may find abundant instances in the imaginary letters 
of famous persons, in the fictitious poems that were composed on every 
hand for the confusion of modern commentators. Dio Chrysostomos, 
who lived in the time of Trajan, apologizes for an invention concerning 
modern and inglorious times, on the ground that he will be thought 
an idle prattler for not appearing in the usual guise of Cyrus or Alci- 
biades. Nor was it in literature alone that this tendency appeared ; 
Dio Cassius tells that at the games celebrating the opening of the 
Colosseum and the Baths of Titus in Rome, the naval combats repre- 
sented those fought between the Corcyraeans, Syracusans, and Athe- 
nians in the Peloponnesian war, and not any Roman victory. 

The eloquence or rhetorical skill with which these fanciful compo- 
sitions were uttered was their warrant for existing, and amply justified 
their production. No other purpose was served in the death of political 
power; and just as the accumulation and display of rich material had 
become the sole aim of architects, and in sculpture the same profusion 
of luxury took the place of the long-lived beauty of the art, and costly 
mosaic expelled painting, so the playing with words was the last sign 
of the intellectual activity of the Greeks. It was a mere mechanical 
existence that they le'd ; they went through the motions of living, but 
with only a pitiable imitation of their former grandeur. Yet even all 
these inventions were not wholly without benefit. It was a period of 
dwindling importance, but one that indicated a possible advance in 
the future. Nature cannot be forever producing; and even the bleak 
storms of winter enrich the frozen soil. 

While the true explanation of this beating over the old straw is to 
be found in the absence of real interest in life, it must yet be remem- 
bered that the very virtue of this race, their interest in the form of 
any utterance, led to this constant repetition of artificial methods ; 
and the incessant toying with the familiar material, the perpetual 
restatement of old problems, became in time, both in prose and verse, 
a very meagre outlet for the intelligence, while an ingenious device 
for the cleverness, of the Greeks. This artificiality was something like 
an unending building of block houses, to be destroyed as soon as com- 
pleted, and while we see some of its results in the dwindling excellence 
of Greek letters, we may detect a part of its influence in the literature 
of the Romans, and notably in the heroic poems of Ovid, which have 



THE EXTREME ARTIFICIALITY OF THIS LITERATURE. 859 

served as models for a good many writers who kept closely to the 
methods of the ancients. These later Greeks were not filled with any- 
thing to say : they rather possessed, partly by inheritance, a keen desire 
to speak, and hence said the same thing over and over with unwearying 
repetition, and the issue was emptiness and barrenness of thought. 
Literary expression became then a mere thing of schools, not an utter- 
ance of the feelings that inspire a mighty people, and the way in which 
things were formulated became of the chief moment. These stories 
show the consequences in their remoteness from the actual life of the 
time. That is wholly lost sight of, and we get pictures of the impos- 
sible, placed in a fantastic region in which puppets move on the end 
of conspicuous wires. Thus is explained, too, the origin of the Greek 
romances in the disposition which showed itself both in poetry and 
prose to play with imaginary subjects, as in the elegies of Callimachus, 
many of the epigrams of the Anthology, and in the imaginary letters, 
debates, orations dexterously inserted in mouths of long dead cha- 
racters, all being indications of the death of genuine enthusiasm while 
the art survived. The art, too, has in its turn triumphed in modern 
literature. Yet its greatest success was at home. 




WOODEN TABLET. 



CHAPTER VII.— THE GREEK ROMANCES. 

— This Confusion, Great as it was, Led to an Attempted Reorganization of Literary 
Work in the Romances. The Method of Composition : Prominence of Love, 
Wildness of Incident, etc. II. — lamblichus Xenophon of Ephesus. Apollonius 
of Tyre. Heliodorus. The Modern Descendants of these Romances. III. — Achil- 
les Tatius. Charitons. IV. — Longus and his Pastoral. The End. 



I. 

IN its own time, as we have said, this fantastic forged literature was 
of great service in furthering the development of a new form of 
composition which was destined to have much influence on modern 
writing, and the qualities of the Greek romance, the impossible adven- 
tures, the succession of catastrophes, the complicated intrigues, the 
intense love-making, had long formed the ingenious exercises of orators 
and speakers who lived by entertaining hearers and readers. The 
tendency of literature towards the discussion of love themes we have 
noticed even in Euripides, and we have seen how much more distinct 
it became when Greek letters found their new home at Alexandria. 
Obviously, the disconnected manner in which this favorite subject was 
treated in the later days by men who sought to concentrate all their 
acuteness upon a brief declamation or essay stood in the way of a 
patient development of the study of the individual character. It 
furthered the production of rather a number of vivid scenes than of a 
carefully composed whole, and the Greek romances that have come 
down to us abound in incident ; they lack psychological unity. Inven- 
tion is exhausted in devising a succession of events; there is no growth, 
no careful study, of character. The fragmentary nature of the previous 
studies for the romance were not the only cause of the absence of 
careful treatment of character ; another explanation may be found in 
that law of intellectual economy which forbids the combination of 
exciting incidents with psychological analysis. If a succession of 
catastrophes will sustain the reader's interest, there is no necessity of 
strengthening this by describing the mental growth of the hero and 
heroine. It is only when readers have learned every possible combina- 
tion of flood, flames, earthquakes, wild beasts, robbers, murderers, and 
poisons, and they no longer shudder at grewsome casualties because 
they know that there is salvation only a few pages ahead, that the 



THE CRUDITY OF THE ROMANCES. 



86 1 



more delicate and more difficult work of portraying a human being 
begins. The Greek romance did not attain this point, which was left 
for modern times, yet it is sufficiently creditable that before their final 
intellectual extinction this wonderful race should have completed their 
task of founding every form of literature on which posterity was to 
work. The romance nearly escaped them, and if they appropriated it 
too late to develop it thoroughly, they yet in intellectual matters ruled 
an empire vaster than the 
material empire of Rome. 

While the absence of 
smoothness in the course of 
true love is the leading sub- 
ject of these early romances, 
there is to be found in all of 
them an evasion of the diffi- 
culties of the psychological 
problem which hides itself 
under the accumulation of 
geographical wonders. In- 
cidents and stories of this 
sort had long found a place 
in Greek literature. The 
Odyssey contains them, and 
even the philosophers, as 
Plato, with his fantastic is- 
lands of Atlantis, had em- 
ployed the same inventions 
which appear in all litera- 
tures. While the literary 
history of the Greek ro- 
mances is obscure in many 
points, owing to their share 
in the uncertainty that cov- 
ers the whole later period 
of Greek letters, the titles 
of some of the earliest indi- 
cate the free employment of this device, and their frequency is 
attested by the fact that Lucian caricatured them in his True 
History. Apparently, the love-stories began by adopting the still 
earlier geographical romances, which were crammed with impossible 
details, the human element that bound the incidents together being 
a couple of lovers in whose experience these adventures occur. One 
of the very first was written by Antonius Diogenes ; it consisted of 




EROS, GOD OF LOVE. 



862 THE GREEK ROMANCES 

twenty-four books, and bore for its title The Wonders Beyond Thule. 
The exact date of its composition is almost hopelessly lost, yet the 
name of the author makes it clear that he must have lived during this 
period of the Roman dominion, and it is conjectured to belong to the 
first century of our era. The epitome of this book which was made 
by the patriarch Photius in the ninth century shows how close an 
analogy it-bore to the geographical romances ; the novel contains the 
recital of most adventuresome travels, not only up and down the face 
of the earth, but also through the regions beneath the earth, into 
Hades and out again, and even to the moon. These details quite. over- 
balance the romantic love incidents, which in comparison are few and 
insignificant. Indeed the prominence of the fantastic adventures, 
made up of folk-lore, travelers' tales, and the collections of geographers, 
places the composition of the story at an early date, before the per- 
petual treatment of love-themes by sophists and rhetoricians had 
acquired the full growth that it reached towards the middle of the 
second century of our era. As has been said, it was these exercises 
that gave this form of fiction its most important quality, the human 
element, which has been the basis of modern as of ancient romance ; 
the framework in which this vital part was set came, as we have seen, 
from the geographical accounts and romances. 

II. 

The earliest of those which contained a real romantic quality is that 
of lamblichus, a Syrian, and contemporary of Lucian. Before learning 
Greek and becoming a rhetorician, he acquired a knowledge of the 
language of Babylon from one of the officials of the king of that city 
who was taken prisoner in Trajan's Parthian expedition. In the reign 
of Marcus Aurelius he wrote his romance which he called the Baby- 
loniaca. Curiously enough, he pretended that it was merely a version 
of an old Babylonian story which had been told him by his teacher, 
who, after all, may have been invented for the occasion. This method 
of smuggling the romance into Greek literature betrays a certain 
timidity with regard to its novelty, and it is one that is not unfamiliar 
to later times. Thus Horace Walpole pretended that his Castle of 
Otranto " was printed at Naples, in the black letter, in the year 1529 
A.D.," and that it was " found in the library of an ancient Catholic family 
in the north of England." The Babylonian friend and teacher of 
lamblichus may be fellow-citizens of Onuphrio Muralto, the alleged 
author, and of William Marshall, the alleged translator, of the later 
romance. Chatterton's device was the product of similar conditions. 

Unfortunately, the phrase which continually meets the student of 



THE COMPLICATED PLOTS. 863 

Greek literature must be used again here, for the book itself has not 
come down to us; but the same Photius who described the work of 
Antonius Diogenes has also left us an analysis of a good part of this 
important romance. Even a brief account of its confused plot would 
take up too much space. It need only be said that it concerns the 
manifold persecutions and sufferings of a loving couple, Simonis, who 
is the object of the odious attentions of Garmus, king of Babylon, and 
Rhodanes, her husband. Yet it is not their mental agony, the growth 
of their love under peril, or the force of despair, that is portrayed, but 
rather the simple succession of cruel incidents. Some of these were 
facts that even now have a place in the reports of Egyptian travelers, 
such as the bees that sting the soldiers to death ; others were the com- 
monplaces of folk-lore ; while others again were to have a long life in 
later romance, as when the hero and heroine take a sleeping potion 
in place of poison. These various casualties and trials are not artis- 
tically arranged so that one is in any way an outgrowth of the other ; 
they are rather, as it were, pinned together in artificial sequence, yet 
we notice that they are more truly devices to inflict anguish on the 
suffering man and woman than a mere recital of geographical details. 

Impossible and incoherent as are the accumulated agonies of this 
hero and heroine, they have been employed in modern literature, and 
especially in the Sofonisbe of de Gerzan, 1627, which contains many 
imitations of the plot, and some translations of the few fragments that 
have been elsewhere preserved. Later we shall see other proofs of the 
authority of these Greek romances over those written in France and 
read everywhere in the seventeenth century. 

Xenophon of Ephesus, the author of the Ephesian Story of An- 
theia and Habrocomes, may be mentioned next, although the exact 
dates of these late writers are almost as uncertain as those of the most 
remote, and the age to which this author belongs is variously set every- 
where between the second and the fifth centuries of our era, with at 
least a possibility — for one can scarcely call it a probability — of its be- 
longing to the end of the second or the beginning of the third. The 
romance begins where the others end, with the marriage of the hero 
and heroine Habrocomes and Antheia, and then goes on to describe a 
long series of woes that befell them after this event. It is not, how- 
ever, any accustomed conjugal infelicity that pursues them, or any 
domestic tragedy, but rather a hideous nightmare of romantic inci- 
dents, separation, long wanderings, and the usual machinery where- 
with these writers were wont to amuse their readers. In general the 
reader who is brought up on the maturer novels of later times finds 
these early inventions awkward and cumbersome, but in this story the 
creaking of the machinery is more astounding than anywhere, for all 



864 



THE GREEK ROMANCES. 



the misadventures follow upon the declaration of an oracle that the 
unhappy pair are fated to endure many calamities by land and sea, but 
that finally they shall enjoy happier fortune. Hence they are sent 
abroad shortly after their marriage in order, apparently, to make the 
oracle true, and they face with composure the dangers which they 
know in advance so well. Their parents have enough faith to send 
the children off, but not enough to await their return, for they kill 
themselves in despair ; but the reader does not share their doubts, and 
when matters look worst he is consoled by the 
crudity of the device, which has its only rival in 
literature in Bottom's suggestion for a prologue 
in the Midsummer Night's Dream. More than 
half the face is seen through this lion's neck. 
Obviously, this method of starting the unhappy 
pair upon their adventures has not found ad- 
mirers, but, granting its clumsiness, their misfor- 
tunes are like those of all the rest, and it ought 
not to have failed to please those who are only 
satisfied when a work of fiction ends well. Here 
the pious reader was insured against disappoint- 
ment. The two sufferers are in perpetual misery : 
robbers, cannibals, and worse forever threaten 
them ; their personal beauty is a continual source 
of peril, but finally the oracle is verified and all 
is well. Some of the incidents are the same that 
are mentioned among the devices of the other 
writers : the sleeping-potion, for instance, while 
of course the geographical turmoil rages as ever, 
although with more than the usual confusion. 

The story of Apollonius of Tyre bears a curi- 
ous resemblance to the romance just described, 
and it is further interesting from the fact that 
it reached Europe and was enormously popular 
throughout the Middle Ages. We possess it 
only in this Latin version, which in its brevity 
bears the marks of an abridgment like those chapbooks, published 
even so late as the middle of the last century, of the long French 
romances of earlier date. The Greek original is lost, and indeed that 
it ever existed is only a matter of inference from the nature of the 
story, its list of adventures, and the general tone of the rhetorical 
parts. The earliest mention of this version is in a grammatical treatise 
that belongs to the seventh century, and of course it may have been 
in existence earlier. Of its later life we know more; it doubtless 




GODDESS FORTUNA. 



THEIR INFLUENCE IN MODERN TIMES. 865 

reached Europe as part of the booty of the crusades, and Apollonius 
soon took his place alongside of Alexander the Great, King Arthur, 
and Charlemagne. Gower recites many of the incidents of his career 
in his Confessio Amantis ; he is referred to by Chaucer, and so became 
the original of Shakspere's Pericles, Prince of Tyre. In the Latin 
version that we have it is easy to detect probable modifications of the 
original at the hands of the translator, who not merely abridged but 
adapted the Greek work. Indeed it has been plausibly conjectured 
that the work composed by a pagan Greek was put into Latin by some 
early Christian. As it stands it offers us one of the very few examples 
that can be found of the influence of Greek work upon mediaeval litera- 
ture. Investigation will doubtless determine more, for it is impossible 
to suppose that the unlimited abundance of Greek rhetoric and soph- 
istry that pervaded the whole Roman empire in the early centuries of 
our era should have vanished without leaving many traces on the suc- 
ceeding developments of literature. 

The longest and in some ways the most important of all these 
romances is the Ethiopics ; or, Adventures of Theagenes and Chariclea, 
of Heliodorus. The usual obscurity hides the author. We only know 
that he is mentioned. in a church history that belongs to the first half 
of the fifth century, and it is there said that the writer of .the romance 
afterwards became a bishop. If this were true, he would have been 
more fortunate than Dean Swift, whose Tale of a Tub barred his way 
to such promotion, but the statement is now regarded as merely an 
idle rumor, and the only fact that we can get is that the book was 
written before that date. The whole story reeks with paganism, and 
if its author was a priest, he was a priest of Apollo. 

An outline of the plot shows all the family traits of this species of 
composition : Theagenes, a Thessalian of noble birth, meets Chariclea, 
a Delphian priestess, and the two fall instantly in love with each other 
and elope together. Once started off, they simply bound from the 
hands of one band of robbers or pirates to those of another, and Chari- 
clea's beauty never fails to inspire each chief in turn with the most 
desperate love. At length they reach Egypt, and there they are seized 
by a band of Ethiopians and carried away into captivity. It is decided 
they shall be sacrificed, Theagenes to the sun, Chariclea to the moon ; 
but Chariclea explains that she is the white daughter of an Ethiopian 
king, exposes the strawberry mark on her left arm, and is at once recog- 
nized as princess of the country, and all ends happily in her marriage 
with Theagenes. But this sketch does no manner of justice to the 
ingenuity with which every simple solution of the many complications 
that arise is continually retarded. Perpetually the feelings of the 
readers are assaulted ; no sooner does he give a sigh of relief over the 



866 THE GREEK ROMANCES. 

escape of the lovers from one peril than he holds his breath over some 
new impending evil. The story begins, too, in the very middle, and 
the uneven movement is further complicated by long descriptions of 
one thing and another, that give the author an excellent opportunity 
to show his skill. Yet these discursions have with time become sub- 
servient to the romantic side of the tale ; they no longer hold the 
first place. 

It was in 1534 that the first edition of the Greek text was pub- 
lished ; a French translation by Jacques Amyot, the translator of 
Plutarch, appeared in 1549, and this was followed by an English ver- 
sion in 1577. Editions rapidly followed one another in both France 
and England, and other translations were made in Spain, Italy, HoU 
land, and Germany. In Tasso's Gerusalemme Liberata (xii. 21 fl.) 
we find one of the incidents made use of ; Racine once thought of 
writing a play founded on this romance, and Alexander Hardy wrote 
eight out of its copious accumulation of incidents. In Spain it inspired 
a good part of the Trabajos de Persiles y Sigismunda of Cervantes, 
and Calderon's Teagenes of Cariclea, as well as Perez de Montalvan's 
Hijos de la Fortuna. 

Yet these instances of manifest indebtedness are less important 
proofs of the nature of the influence which this and the other Greek 
romances exercised, than are the countless resemblances appearing in 
the French heroic romances of the seventeenth century. The fantastic 
notion of love was alike in both ; what was the last invention of Greek 
ingenuity, which grew up in a period of general decay and was molded 
into shape by generations of clever word-jugglers, bore a close resem- 
blance to the notion of that passion which had formed itself in accord- 
ance with the ideas of chivalry. As Gervinus has said, the childishness 
of the old age of the Greek mind was like the childishness of the new 
modern civilization, and the discovery of a similar tendency to exag- 
geration and formless literary work among the ancients must have 
given enormous encouragement to those unpractised writers who 
would have been powerless had they undertaken to measure them- 
selves against the real masterpieces of Greek literature. The inherit- 
ance of the long-winded unartistic mediaeval work was strong, and lent 
itself to following these awkward models, while nothing is more lifeless 
than the early Italian efforts to write classic dramas and epics. The 
Renaissance did its best to make a complete rupture with the Middle 
Ages, but the most successful work that it inspired was that which 
accepted them and let the two currents, the mediaeval and the classic, 
flow naturally into one great stream, as was done in the English drama. 
We may well believe that the cumbersomeness and crudity of these 
Greek romances were not perceived by those admirers as they are by 



INDEBTEDNESS OF THE MODERNS TO ROMANCE- WRITERS. 867 

us. It was enough for them that the romances were written in Greek, 
they had not begun to trouble themselves about dates, those awkward 
destroyers of idle hypotheses, and with the friendly aid of gross exag- 
gerations and artificial mechanism they were enabled to let modern 
romance enjoy an equable development from its mediaeval origin to 
its present condition, uninterrupted, as were most forms of literature, 
by nervous reference to what the ancients had done. The result is 
certainly one to be proud of, and its worth is undoubtedly in great 
measure due to the immunity of fiction from premature comparison 
with ancient work. It has grown up by itself, correcting its faults by 
its own experience and not by continual appeal to text-books, and is 
now, as every one knows, the one branch of letters in which society 
records itself most distinctly, and that, rather than the observance of 
rules, is the true aim of literature. 

Nothing could exceed the generous supply of artificiality which the 
Greek romances supplied to a sympathetic world. The hero and 
the heroine of Theagenes and Chariclea are models of beauty, yet the 
heroine is most distinctly the protagonist, the leading character of 
the book, which in this respect is adapted to gratify those who were 
brought up on mediaeval fictions. Unending pains are taken to keep 
the reader in a perpetual twitter of excitement over the countless vicis- 
situdes of the young couple who forever escape, as it were, from the 
frying-pan to the more threatening perils of the fire. This device of 
retarding the final solution was very effective and became the common 
property of the modern writers of romance. 

And just as the first sight of a new shore after crossing the ocean 
reminds the traveler of the last view of the one he left, so the begin- 
ning romance of modern times presents a notable likeness to the 
expiring fiction of antiquity. In both we find the same artifice and 
tumultuous accumulation of incident, a similar absence of psychological 
development — this quality existing only in Longus's Daphnis and 
Chloe, and even there but imperfectly — and an almost identical aristo- 
cratic tone that betokens a literary creation rather than a product of 
popular growth. The resemblance goes further, in accordance with 
this last-named quality, extending to the admiration that is given in 
both ancient and early modern romance, to natural beauty only when 
it has known the decorative hand of man. The park and the garden 
are the favorite scenes ; the landscape is only praised after it has been 
adorned by the landscape gardener. Especially are these remarks true 
of the French pastorals, which were written after the Greek ones had 
been translated and received with the enthusiasm that was given to 
everything that bore the stamp of classic antiquity. When the Greek 
left off, the modern man began — in romance at least ; and a similar con- 



868 THE GREEK ROMANCES. 

dition of things may also be noticed in some of the forms of poetical 
composition. The literary style of the two periods presents the same 
interesting likeness, both being marked by the same artifices of com- 
position. 

There were yet other causes of the noticeable likeness between the 
gropings of an expiring civilization and those of the one beginning, 
among which may be mentioned the surviving influence of the Greek 
romances through a good part of the Middle Ages, when we find many 
of their most characteristic qualities appearing in an easily recognizable 
form. The construction of some of the mediaeval poems, the sequence 
of incidents, the subjects themselves, bear unmistakable traces of late 
Greek originals, probably reaching the poets of the Middle Ages 
through Latin translations in the many cases when the Greek itself 
was an absolutely unknown tongue. The proof is not positive, but it 
forms an impressive accumulation of possibilities and probabilities that 
corroborates the intrinsic difficulty of affirming the absolute annihila- 
tion of an abundant stream of material — a difficulty as great as that of 
asserting positive invention at any period. The Greek names of some 
mediaeval heroes and heroines ; the way in which the passion of love 
is portrayed ; certain grammatical constructions in the language, and 
the use of certain words almost transliterated strengthen the hypo- 
thesis, which is especially strengthened by the resemblance of the inco- 
herent incidents of the poems to those of the Greek romances. Yet, 
even if it be acknowledged that the influence of the Greek romances 
did not wholly expire in the Middle Ages, the fact would not greatly 
modify the interest of the similar treatment that marked the decay 
and the revival of letters, because this last period was full of new aims 
and courted new methods, as we may see by comparing Boccaccio's 
" Filocopo " with the mediaeval form of " Floire et Blanceflor." Liter- 
ary art begins for modern times with the great Italian's prose, and it 
is here that the strongest analogy with the late Greek appears most 
vividly. It is easier, perhaps, to explain the interest in the tales of 
adventure by supposing them to be an unbroken chain, than it is to 
imagine that they were invented over again. The subsequent deve- 
lopment of the modern novel lies outside of our subject ; it will be 
seen that the new direct translations only furthered a taste already 
existing. 

III. 

Another romance which has come down to us complete is the Loves 
of Clitopho and Leucippe, by Achilles Tatius, an evident imitator of 
Heliodorus. The story is one of the usual sort. Robbers and pirates : 
battles, murders, and sudden deaths, which their position in the novel 



THEIR PICTORIAL QUALITY. 869 

prove to be nothing but trances — the whole machinery is there, dimly 
concealed beneath alleged facts which are quite as romantic as the 
harmless blood-letting, and over all a veil of sophistical declamation. 
Of the author's history nothing is known ; there is an idle rumor that 
he too was a Christian bishop, but this is only part of the general imi- 
tation of Heliodorus. He lived apparently at about the time when 
Musaeus and Nonnus uttered the last notes of Greek poetry, say in the 
fifth century. If realism is not a striking quality of the literary work 
of this time, certainly no book is less marked by it than is this romance 
of Achilles Tatius. The artificial life of the puppets about whom he 
writes is thickly overlaid with all the devices of an artificial rhetoric. 
The very beginning furnishes an excellent example of the method, in 
its description of a picture of the Rape of Europa, at which the nar- 
rator of the romance was looking when the hero met him and began 
to recount his adventures. This description of the picture was evi- 
dently written to perform what was a frequent exercise of the Sophists, 
as the similar descriptions of pictures which Philostratus wrote will 
show, and here it supplies what is by far the most lifelike part of the 
story. Here is a bit of it : 

" The artist had shown great skill in managing the shade ; for the sun- 
rays were seen dispersedly breaking through the overarching roof of leaves, 
and lighting up the meadow, which, situated as I have said, beneath a leafy 
screen, was surrounded on all sides by a hedge. Under the trees, beds of 
flowers were laid out, in which bloomed the narcissus, the rose, and the 
myrtle. Bubbling up from the ground, a stream flowed through the midst 
of this enamelled meadow, watering the flowers and shrubs ; and a gardener 
was represented with his pickaxe opening a channel for its course. The 
maidens above mentioned were placed by the painter in a part of the meadow 
bordering upon the sea. Their countenances wore a mingled expression of 
joy and fear ; they had chaplets upon their heads, their hair fell dishevelled 
about their shoulders ; their legs were entirely bare — for a cincture raised 
their garments above the knee — and their feet were unsandalled ; their 
cheeks were pale and contracted through alarm ; their eyes were directed 
towards the sea ; their lips were slightly opened as if about to give vent to 
their terror in cries ; their hands were stretched out towards the bull ; they 
were represented upon the verge of the sea, the water just coming over their 
feet ; they appeared eager to hasten after the bull, but at the same time 
fearful of encountering the waves. The color of the sea was twofold : 
towards the land it had a ruddy hue ; farther out it was dark-blue ; foam 
also, and rocks and waves were represented ; the rocks projecting from the 
shore, and whitened with foam, caused by the crests of the waves breaking 
upon their rugged surface." 

This description reads as if it could only have been written before 
the very picture, and it is curious to notice what a near likeness it bears 
to some of the Italian work, as if at least tradition had handed down 



870 THE GREEK ROMANCES. 

the artistic methods of a thousand years earlier, however unlikely, 
though not impossible, such survival may be. 

The quality of the romances is shown most vividly in this one with 
its exaggerated rhetoric. The power of love naturally calls forth all 
the writer's raptures. Thus : 

" I rose from the table intoxicated with love. Upon entering my accustomed 
chamber, sleep was out of the question. It is the law of nature that diseases 

and bodily wounds always become exasperated at night By the same 

rule, the wounds of the soul are much more painful while the body is lying 
motionless ; in the day, both the eyes and ears are occupied by a multiplicity 
of objects ; thus, the soul has not leisure to feel pain, and so the violence of 
the disease is for a time mitigated ; but let the body be fettered by inactivity, 
and then the soul retains its susceptibility, and becomes tempest-tossed by 
trouble ; the feelings which were asleep then awaken. The mourner then 
feels his grief, the anxious his solicitude, he who is in peril his terrors, the 
lover his inward flame." 

The power of love extends to beasts, plants, minerals (witness the 
magnet), rivers, and streams. 

Eloquence is its only rival. Whatever happens, the characters 
readily declaim. Thus: " Has Fortune delivered us from the hands 
of buccaneers only that she [Leucippe] may fall a prey to madness? 
Unhappy that we are, when will our condition change? We escape 
dangers at home only to be overtaken by the shipwreck; saved from 
the fury of the sea and freed from pirates, we were reserved for the 
present visitation — madness ! " etc. The style is familiar, and it 
is not made more impressive by the so-called facts of natural history 
and geography that are placed in this strange setting. 

Fortune, it will be noticed, is referred to as the cause of this strange 
conjunction of events ; and the prominence given to the power of this 
reckless deity, and the absence of even shadowy references to the older 
pagan gods, make it possible that the author was a Christian exercising 
himself with the familiar literary machinery. At any rate, he was not 
an ardent pagan. This new deity, Tyche, Fortune, had grown powerful 
when the old pantheon was emptied, and nowhere had it enjoyed more 
absolute rule than in these stories, and in this one it was less burdened 
by any subordination to probability than anywhere else. This god- 
dess, who stood for the blind chance that seemed to have so much 
power for evil when the old gods had proved powerless against the 
disasters that had made over the whole condition of the ancient world, 
had become powerful from the very decay of her rivals. Thus Poly- 
bius had called Rome the noblest and most beneficent work of Fortune. 
Yet he had a broad vision and refused to regard this Fortune as a blind 
force ; he called it rather an honest umpire, an intelligent overruling 



THEIR MONOTONOUS VARIETY. 87 1 

deity who gave power to a people that had earned it. Plutarch, too, 
had said that virtue brought with it as reward the gifts of Fortune, 
but in general the observation of the current confusion inclined men 
to ascribe every form of misery to the caprice of this uncertain deity. 
In these romances she is omnipotent, for just as the belief in her con- 
trol removes from men all responsibility for the results of their actions, 
so in literature the possibility of ascribing any incoherent series of 
incidents to the well-known variety of her mandates tended to make 
unnecessary all effort to attain probability or orderly sequence of 
events. 

In the Adventures of Chaereas and Callirhoe, by Chariton of Aphro- 
disias, we have another instance of the uniformity that prevailed in 
these romances in spite of the most desperate struggles after new 
inventions. All the old terrors reappear : robbers, maritime perils, 
apparent death which is only a delusion, enamored villains, all are 
there, but virtue finally triumphs and all is well. There is an attempt 
to make a historical background for the accumulated adventures, but 
it is one that will not endure examination, although it leaves with the 
romance the credit of being one of the first of the long-lived historical 
romances. What it lacks in history it more than makes up with geo- 
graphy : the scene opens in Syracuse, and is laid further in Asia Minor, 
Babylon, and of course in Egypt, for in this remote antiquity we find 
the earliest international novels. Fortunately, however, this tale of 
suffering love is not impeded by the customary introduction of super- 
fluous bits of information about natural history ; the story runs on 
with commendable smoothness and comparative simplicity; it only 
needs a more genuine tale of passion to be really successful. The 
author's indebtedness to the earlier romancers is everywhere apparent, 
although it is uncertain which can be said to have borrowed from the 
other, Chariton or Achilles Tatius. 

These were the most important of the Greek romances ; those that 
followed them during the later period were but feeble copies of these 
admired originals and scarcely fall within the scope of this book. The 
most important, or, rather, the least unimportant of these later pro- 
ductions is the story of Hysmine and Hysminias by the philosopher 
Eumathius, or Eustathius as he is more accurately named. The book 
is full of faults, such as might be expected in a feeble copy of Achilles 
Tatius ; it is crammed with amorous absurdities, and is only remarkable 
for the extravagant somnolence of the love-lorn hero, who in the brief 
moments of wakefulness recounts his dreams. This book was probably 
composed in the twelfth century, as was the story of Rodanthe and 
Dosicles, by Theodorus Prodromus, an imitator of Heliodorus. 



872 THE GREEK ROMANCES. 



IV. 



Along with these romances belongs the single Greek pastoral story 
that has come down to us, the Daphnis and Chloe of Longus, which, to 
be sure, takes up another subject than the romances, but is yet strongly 
marked with their characteristics. Naturally this is a love story; the 
hero and heroine are a rustic young couple who do not cross the seas 
to endure fantastic adventures. The setting of the story is near 
Mitylene in the island of Lesbos, and the pastoral background forms 
the most essential part of the framework of this most artificial tale. 
The description of summer and winter, the occupations of shepherds, 
the joy in the harvest, form the current that floats the recital of the 
anything but innocent love of Daphnis and Chloe. In the study of 
literature one thing is to be noticed, and that is the uniformity of tone 
that prevails at any given period. In an artificial time, whatever 
efforts may be made to secure simplicity, the result will be an artificial 
simplicity, in which convention rules, just as truly as the garden about 
a handsome house will be marked with the current artificiality ; and 
always this quality will prevail in exact proportion to the general con- 
dition of men's tastes. Hence it will surprise no one to find in the 
pastoral of Longus a most knowing and suggestive representation of 
the youthful ignorance of the hero and heroine, and a picture of nature 
that infallibly balances the general directness of vision prevailing at 
his time. How exact an eye these later writers had is easily deter- 
minable from a brief study of the romances, and here we find a sophist 
attempting to be natural, yet hampered — or, as he doubtless imagined, 
supported — by all the tricks of his trade. The idylls of Theocritus 
brought a breath of fresh air into the dying classicism of Alexandria, 
but later the love of them had shared the fate of the art and literature, 
and had succumbed to the common artificiality. Fantastic descrip- 
tions of rustic scenes had long been common ; praise of the song of 
birds, of the loveliness of flowers, rural simplicity, the seasons, pastoral 
adventures, beautiful scenery, had long inspired men who were never 
tired of seeking in contrast, cleverness, and brilliancy for new delight. 
Libanius, for example, has left us an exercise in praise of that vener- 
able subject, the beauty of spring, in which there is a description of a 
lovely garden, that contains these words : 

" All this was delightful to look upon, yet to describe it to an audience is 
yet more delightful." 

And this is but one of many instances of the way in which this subject 



DAPHNIS AND CHLOE. 



873 




was treated. Everywhere in literature proportion is preserved, and 
when the drawing-room is the scene of one form, it is the garden that 
appears in the attempted delineations of nature. To be sure, the 
romances do not concern 
themselves, after the man- 
ner of contemporary English 
novels, with the instances of 
social life in the drawing- 
room, but their whole tone 
is that of conventional so- 
ciety. The hero and heroine 
are always of gentle blood ; 
the populace has its modern 
equivalent in the chorus of 
an Italian opera; they fill the 
humble position of rabble, 
citizens, soldiers, and the 
like. The action of the 
stories is distinctly busied 
only with the aristocratic vic- 
tims of circumstances. This 
pastoral presents rustic life, 
devoid of its griminess, and 
only as it appears to people 
of position. Yet when this 
is granted it must also be 
acknowledged that although the picture drawn is a conventional 
one, it is yet well drawn. It is a fairyland, but a charming fairy 
land that the author puts before us. The love of Daphnis and Chloe 
knows all the delays and hindrances that an ingenious invention can 





SHEPHERD. 



SHEPHERD. 



§74 THE GREEK ROMANCES. 

devise, but its setting is more attractive than the story itself. The 
pictures are the work of a time which lacked any real enthusiasm, 
which, indeed, was affected by some of the most worthless interests, 
but the idyllic touches here and there show that the old Greek spirit 
had not wholly died. It was, however, lamentably checked with rhet- 
orical artifices ; the language is a mass of willful prettinesses, enough 
to place the story among the sophistical productions, although its 
exact date cannot be determined. It was translated by Amyot in 
1559 A.D., but its ground was already taken, and although it enjoyed 
great popularity, the pastorals of Italy and Spain had firm hold of the 
popular taste, and the work of Longus remained a sort of literary 
curiosity, a wonderful example of grace mingled with the abundant 
literary artifice of a dying civilization. 

Practically the life of Greek letters was ended ; a great task was done, 
and what remained was only the gradual evaporation of literature that 
coincided with the general enfeeblement of active interests that con- 
stituted the dark ages. The world was in process of incubating another 
social system when the authority of Rome and of Greece was to reassert 
its power. Here we may leave the description of Greek literature, 
after attempting to trace it from its magnificent beginning, through 
its greatness and its combined brilliancy and conventionality, until it 
became a mechanical art and so perished. In all history there is no 
such subject, nothing that can compare with the naturalness and exu- 
berant life of Greek letters, no sadder instance of complete decay. 



THE END. 






INDEX 



Acharnians, The, 452-460. 

Achilles Tatius, 868-870. 

Action, lack of, in early tragedies, 248, 
254, 261. 

Aelian, 851. 

^Eschylus, 239-300 ; life, 239, 240 ; com- 
pared with Beethoven, 250; praised 
by Aristophanes, 484-492. 

Agamemnon, The, 275-286. 

Ajax, The, 336-341. 

Alcseus, 174, 175. 

A Ices t is, The, 398-402. 

Alexander of Etolia, 766. 

Alexandria, 741-748 ; qualities of its 
literature, 748, 749, 751, 754, 763, 
768, 799. 

Anacreon, 182-184. 

Anaxagoras, 665. 

Anaximander, 659. 

Anaximenes, 659. 

Andocides, 609. 

Andromache, The, 402, 403. 

Anthology, The, 786-798. 

Antigone, The, yii-yil. 

Antimachus, 764, 765. 

Antiphon, 608, 609. 

Apollonius of Tyre, 864, 865. 

Apollonius Rhodius, 770-773. 

Aratus, 773, 774. 

Archilochus, 158-161. 

Aristophanes, 452-499, 505 ; his con- 
servatism, 453, 497 ; his vividness, 
466, 475, 479, 497 ; attacks Euripides, 
457, 484, 485, 492 ; admires yEschy- 
lus, 484, 492 ; compared with Me- 
nander, 502. 

Aristotle, 715-737; life, 715-717; his 
scientific work, 718-720; his Meta- 
physics, 723, 724; Physics, 725; Eth- 
ics, 726, 729 ; Politics, 727 ; Poetics, 
730,731; extracts, 73 2 ~737. 

Arrian, 852. 

Aryan family, the, 3-5. 

Athenaeus, 850, 851. 

Bacchce, The, 426-433. 
Benn, A. W., on Plato, 687. 
Birds, The, 476-479. 



Callimachus, 767, 771. 

Callinus, 158. 

Changes in literary fashions, 236-238. 

Chariton, 871. 

Chorus, the tragic, 231-234; becoming 
decorative, 389; the comic, 451, 452. 

Clouds, The, 466-469. 

Coluthus, 780. 

Comedians, early, of Athens, 449. 

Comedy, the, 444-507 ; the middle, 494, 
499-507 ; later, 769, 770 ; among the 
Sicilians, 446-448 ; of Megara, 448. 

Conservatism of humorists, 299, 453. 

Crates, 449. 

Cyclic poems, the, 131-135. 

Cyclops, The, 433-438. 

Cynics, the, 683-684. 

Cyropcsdia, The, 578, 579. 

Democritus, 664, 670. 

Demosthenes, 623-655; life, 623-636; 
his qualities, 637-640 ; his succes- 
sors, 640-644. 

Deux ex machina, the, 425. 

Diogenes, 684. 

Diogenes Laertius, 851. 

Dion Cassius, 852. 

Dionysius of Halicarnassus, 815. 

Ecclesiazusce, The, 493. 

Electra, The, of Sophocles, 307-321 ; of 
Euripides, 414-417. 

Eloquence, in tragedy, 312, 313. 

Empedocles, 663, 664. 

Epics, the later, 131, 135; the Sanskrit, 
47~49» 96 ; the Persian, 49. 

Epictetus, 846, 847. 

Epicurus, 738-740. 

Epigram, the Greek idea of, 191, 790. 

Euclid, of Megara, 683 ; the mathema- 
tician, 802, 803. 

Eumenides, The, 290-295. 

Euphuism, compared with early Greek 
prose, 605, 606. 

Euripides, 352-443 ; life, 354-356 ; intro- 
ducing novelties into tragedies, 403, 
405, 407, 408, 413, 414, 421, 425, 426 : 
attacked by Aristophanes, 457, 484, 



876 



INDEX. 



E u ri p i d es — Con tin ued. 

485, 492; answers the attacks, 415 ; 
his later influence, 443 ; as a student, 
443 ; compared with Sophocles, 355, 
359, 368 ; his modernness, 358 ; his 
individuality, 482. 

Eustathius, 871. 

Fear in Greek heroes, 46. 
Frogs, The, 483-492. 

Galen, 804-807. 

Gods, the Greek, 13, 14, 125, 146, 147 ; 

in war, 47. 
Golden Age, the, 262. 
Gorgias, 605, 672. 
Grammarians of Alexandria, 800. 
Greece, its geographical conditions, 6, 7 ; 

influence on Greek mind, 7, 8. 
Greek literature, its originality, 1 ; its 

influence, 2 ; its moderation, 3. 
Greek love of beauty, 28. 

Harrison, Frederic, his admiration of 
Homer, 118, 119. 

Hecuba, The, 360-365, 367. 

Helen, The, 405-407. 

Heliodorus, 865-867. 

Hellenism, 741-874 ; its importance in 
the world's history, 741-743 ; coinci- 
dence between its literature and the 
fine arts, 749-751. 

Heracles, The Mad, 410-413. 

Heraclidce, The, 404, 405. 

Heraclitus, 663. 

Hero and Leander, 780, 781. 

Herodotus, 512-532; his predecessors, 
511; life, 513-515; criticisms upon, 
515-517, 521, 522 ; his style, 517. 

Hesiod, 136-149; life, 140; unlikeness 
to Homer, 138; Works and Days, 
140-145 ; Theogony, 146, 147. 

Hexameter, the, 15, 16, 150, 151. 

Hippocrates, 805. 

Hippolytns, The Crowned, 385-397. 

Homeric Poems. The Epics: their origin, 
16, 17 ; discussion of their author- 
ship, 18-22; the solar myth theory, 
25, 33, 96-98; how praised, 118, 119; 
difference between the two poems, 
120, 121 ; the Hymns, 123-131. 

Homeric Question, the, 17-23 ; early 
questioners, 17, 19. See also ILIAD. 

Hyperides, 640. 

Iamblichus, 862, 863. 

Ibycus, 182. 

Iliad, The, 30-81 ; in the Middle Ages 
and the Renaissance, 34, 35 ; early 
translations of, 35 ; extracts, 50-81. 



Individual portraiture lacking in ^Eschy- 

lus, 297. 
Ion, The, 417-422. 
Iphigeneia among the Taurians, The, 

423-425. 
Iphigeneia in Aulis, The, 422, 423. 
Isseos. 619. 
Isocrates, 613-619; artificiality of, 615, 

620; political views of, 617, 618. 

Japanese poems, like Greek epigrams, 

790- 
Josephus, Flavius, 816, 817. 

Knights, The, 460-466. 

Libation Powers, The, 286-290. 

Literature, not always literary, 12, 502 ; 
related to fine arts, 749-751, 787. 

Longinus, 853. 

Longus, 867, 872-874. 

Lucian, life, 830, 831 ; attacks Greek 
mythology, 831-835, 840; the phil- 
osophers, 836 ; resemblance to me- 
diaeval writers, 838. 

Lyric Poetry, the, 150-216. 

Lysias, 610-613. 

Lysistrata, The, 479, 480. 

Marcus Aurelius, 848, 849. 

Masks, in the drama, 224, 229, 230, 503. 

Medea, The, 370-385. 

Medicine among the Greeks, 804, 806. 

Menander, 500-502, 505-507 ; compari- 
son with Aristophanes, 502, 505 ; re- 
lation to Euripides, 505, 506. 

Mimnermus, 167. 

Moral teaching in literature, 121. 

Musseus, 780, 781. 

Music among the Greeks, 156-158, 172 ; as 
approved by philosophers, 707, 769. 

Nature, how treated by Euripides, 431, 
432 ; later feeling of Alexandrians 
for, 749. 

Nicander, 774. 

Nonnus, 775-780. 

Odyssey, The, 82-117; compared with 
the Iliad, 82, 119, 120; extracts, 99- 
117. 

(Edipus at Colonus, The, 331-336. 

(Edipus, The King, 328-331. 

Oppianus, 775. 

Orators, the, 598-665. 

Oratory, ancient and modern compared, 
598, 599; the Roman, 598, 599; arti- 
ficial, among the Greeks, 616; its 
influence in the drama, 312, 313. 

Orestes, The, 367, 369. 



INDEX. 



S 77 



Parmenides, 662. 

Pausanias, 853. 

Peace, The, 473-476. 

Peripatetic School, the, 737. 

Persian quatrains, like Greek epigrams, 
790. 

Persians, the, 245-252 ; traces of early 
forms of poetry in, 247 ; slow move- 
ment, 248 ; compared with sculpture, 
248. 

Phanocles, 766. 

Philemon, 500. 

Philetas, 765. 

Philoctetes, The, 341-346. 

Philo Judaeus, 854. 

Philosophers, the, 656-740. 

Philosophy, originality of the Greek, 656, 
657 ; the beginnings, 659, 660; Pyth- 
agoreans, 660-662 ; Eleatic School, 
662, and its opponents, 663 ; in 
Athens, 666, 667 ; political tenden- 
cies, 668-670; its desertion of sci- 
ence, 672, 673. See also Plato, 
Aristotle, etc. 

Philostratus, 849. 

Phocylides, 184. 

Phoe?iician Virgins, The, 369, 370. 

Phrynicus, 223. 

Pindar, 196-216; life, 198; extracts, 208- 
216. 

Plato, 686-712; life, 688, 691 ; dialogues, 
702, 706 ; Reptiblic, 706-709 ; Laws, 
708-710; extracts, 694-700, 713, 714. 

Plutarch, 818-829. 

P hit us. The, 493-495, 498. 

Poetical form as expression of political 
condition, 150, 151, 160, 161, 498, 
499, 502, 506, 748. 

Polybius, 809, 815. 

Prometheus Bound, The, 262-274. 

Prose, its origin, 508-510. 

Pythagoras, 660-662. 

Quintus Smyrnaeus, 782-785. 

Rhesus, The, 438, 439. 

Rhianus, 773. 

Romances, The Greek, 860-874. 

Sappho, 175-180. 

Savagery of early Greeks, 5, 125. 

Seve7i against Thebes, The, 252-256 ; 

slow action in, 254 ; influence of early 

poetry in, 254. 
Shakspere, compared with Greeks ; with 

Homer, 33 ; with tragedians, 242, 

243. 3i3> 346, 35i. 354- 365. 366. 



Similes of Homer, 120, 121. 

Simonides of Ceos, 188, 192. 

Simonides of Samos, 161-164. 

Simplicity of Greek tragedians, 418. 

Slavery in Greece, 219, 304. 

Socrates, life, 675-683; his method, 677- 
680; his enemies, 681,682; his fol- 
lowers, 683 ; his speech to his judges, 
694-698 ; his death, 698-700. 

Solon, 168, 170. 

Sophists, the, 601-604, 666-669, 672, 
674. 

Sophocles, 301-351 ; life, 301, 302; com- 
pared with ^Eschylus, 300, 305, 307, 
310, 321, 325, 326, 332, 338 ; possible 
acquaintance with Herodotus, 514. 

Suppliants, The, of Sophocles, 256-262 ; 
of Euripides, 403, 204. 

Symonds, J. A., on Euripides, 352-353. 

Thales, 658, 659. 

Theatre, its construction, 225-227. 

Theocritus, 748-761. 

Theognis, 169, 170; 186-188. 

Theogony, The, 146-149. 

Thesmophoriazusa?, The, 480-482. 

Thucydides, 533-570 ; life, 633 ; com- 
pared with Herodotus, 534, 545 ; 
modernness of, 536, 537 ; his obscu- 
rity, 538, 550 ; speeches, 538-540, 
546,548, 551, 557; judicial quality, 
542. 

Trachis, The Mazdens of, 347-350. 

Tragedians, the later, 439-442. 

Tragedy, the growth of, 222, 223 ; com- 
pared with growth of modern, 224. 

Troades, The, 409, 410. 

Truthfulness a Greek quality, 48. 

Tyrtaeus, 165-167. 

Wasps, The, 469-473. 
Wolf, F. A., His Prolego7nena and its 

influence, 20, 21. 
Women, their position and its influence, 

244, 399, 762, 763. 
Works and Days, The, 140-146. 

Xenophanes, 185, 186, 662. 

Xenophon, 571, 597 ; life, 572, 576 ; com- 
pared with Thucydides, 572 ; his 
safe smoothness, 577, 585 ; Cyropcz- 
dia, The, 578, as a historical novel, 
579 ; his love of Sparta, 585 ; why 
admired, 587. 

Xenophon of Ephesus, 863. 

Zeno, 662. 



